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‘I said you were sympathique,’ she told him. ‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait. The world had grown dark and wide, and she was very small. The little streaks upon the germinating area of an egg, the nervous movements of an impatient horse, the trick of a calculating boy, the senses of a fish, the fungus at the root of a garden flower, and the slime upon a sea-wet rock—ten thousand such things bear their witness and are illuminated. It’s Providence. I have always loved you. “Quite alone, sir. " "I'm sorry I can't indulge you," replied her master, a little piqued.
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