her, to know all he knew. For some time he was silent, hating to answer her. Then, compelled, he began:

‘I know what centres they live from — what they perceive and feel — the hot, stinging centrality of a goose in the flux of cold water and mud — the curious bitter stinging heat of a goose’s blood, entering their own blood like an inoculation of corruptive fire — fire of the cold-burning mud — the lotus mystery.’

Hermione looked at him along her narrow, pallid cheeks. Her eyes were strange and drugged, heavy under their heavy, drooping lids. Her thin bosom shrugged convulsively. He stared back at her, devilish and unchanging. With another strange, sick convulsion, she turned away, as if she were sick, could feel dissolution setting-in in