In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. She could neither speak nor move nor cry out. But he only went home again to Paddington. "The blood that has been spilt is that of his wife. Was it that the struggle of things to survive produced as a sort of necessary byproduct these intense preferences and appreciations, or was it that some mystical outer thing, some great force, drove life beautyward, even in spite of expediency, regardless of survival value and all the manifest discretions of life? She went to Capes with that riddle and put it to him very carefully and clearly, and he talked well—he always talked at some length when she took a difficulty to him—and sent her to a various literature upon the markings of butterflies, the incomprehensible elaboration and splendor of birds of Paradise and hummingbirds’ plumes, the patterning of tigers, and a leopard’s spots. Best assured of that. Forgive my daring.
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