“I can’t imagine what has come over you,” said her aunt. Melusine had confessed this morning, that she had borrowed his horse, that Jack had met with his accident through her fault. To them all I am nothing. 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.
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