SUBJECTIVE. On a rack in the loom. Powerless oneself to grasp the design. Operated on by others. At the mercy of chance fingers, unskilled fingers, tender fingers; nails of all sorts. Unable to progress alone. Finding fulfilment through friction and because of friction. Stung into sentiency gradually, bit by bit—a toe at a time.
After all there was a zest in it; and who should blame the raw material should an accident occur by the way....
Careless of an intriguing world about her, Miss Sinquier left her hotel, just so as to arrive at Angrezini’s last.
“For Thou knowest well my safety is in Thee,” she murmured to herself mazily as her taxi skirted the Park.
Having disposed of her Anne teapot for close on seventy pounds, she was looking more radiant than ever in a frail Byzantine tunic that had cost her fifty guineas.
“Thy Sally’s safety,” she repeated, absently scanning the Park.
Through the shadowy palings it slipped away, abundantly dotted with lovers. Some were plighting themselves on little chairs, others preferred the green ground: and beyond them, behind the whispering trees, the sky gleamed pale and luminous as church glass.
Glory to have a lover too, she reflected, and to stroll leisurely-united through the evening streets, between an avenue of sparkling lamps....
Her thoughts turned back to the young man in the Café Royal.
“Of all the bonny loves!” she breathed, as her taxi stopped.