Never before had she been in contact with that sort of mind, with the vocabulary that was his, with words employed as he employed them. The things this man did with words!
Not that she always understood them, or their intent, or the true intent of the man who uttered them. But this man’s speech had seemed, suddenly, to have awakened her from sleep. And, awakened, everything he said vaguely excited her.
Blind, unknown forces within her stirred when he spoke. Her mind quivered in response; her very blood seemed stimulated. It was as though, shrouding her mind, vast cloudy curtains were opening to disclose undreamed of depths darkly pulsating with veiled brilliancy. Out, into interstellar space, lay the road to Truth.
She thought of her dream—of her wings. She lay looking at Annan, waiting for words.
“Why do you look at me so oddly?” he asked, smiling.
“I like what you say.”
“About what?”
“About anything.”
No man is proof against the surprise and pleasure of so naïve an avowal. Annan reddened, laughed, flattered and a little touched by his power to please so easily.
Looking at her very amiably and complacently, he wondered what effect he might have on this odd little pilgrim if he chose to exert himself. He could be really eloquent when he chose. It was good practice. It gave him facility in his stories.