"Well—" His voice was hoarse. "It's moving, ain't it? You can see it moving for yourself, can't you? You ain't able to say you don't see it, are you?"
"The—wind—" She stammered.
"Where's the wind?"
"Down—there."
"D'you feel a wind? Say, d'you feel a wind?"
"Mebbe—down—there."
"There ain't no wind. Not now—there ain't! And it's moving, ain't it? Say, it's moving, ain't it?"
"It looks like it was dancing. So it does. Like as if it was—making—itself—dance—"
His eyes were still riveted on those arms that came up and down—; up and down—; and reached.
"It'll stop soon—now." He stuttered it more to himself than to her. "Then—it'll be still. I've watched it mighty often. Mebbe it knows I watch it. Mebbe that's why—it—moves—"