Suddenly he shouted through the dark: “Stop! Wait! Go back! Give us the last twenty feet again. Who is that girl—that dream? Who is she, Garfinkel?”
“I don't know her name, sir.”
“Don't know her name! You wouldn't! Well, the whole world will know her name before I get through with her. Who is she, anyway?”
Miss Havender spoke. “Her name is Adair—Anita Adair.”
“Anita Adair, eh? Well, where did she come from? Who dug her up?”
“I did,” said Miss Havender.
“Good for you, old girl! She's just what I need.” And now he studied again the scene in which Kedzie took down the draught of bitter beer, and there was a superhuman vividness in the close-up, with its magnified details in which every tiny muscle revealed its soul.
“Look at her!” Ferriday cried. “She's perfect. The pathos of her! She wants training, like the devil, but, Lord, what material!”
He was as fanatic as a Michelangelo finding in a quarry a neglected block of marble and seeing through its hard edges the mellow contours of an ideal. He was as impatient to assail his task and beat off the encumbering weight.