“The plain common-sense of the case,” he said, “is that we can’t possibly be lovers in the ordinary sense. The little streaks upon the germinating area of an egg, the nervous movements of an impatient horse, the trick of a calculating boy, the senses of a fish, the fungus at the root of a garden flower, and the slime upon a sea-wet rock—ten thousand such things bear their witness and are illuminated. The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them.
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