She realized dimly that there was no personal thing behind his cry, that countless myriads of Mannings had “My God!”-ed with an equal gusto at situations as flatly apprehended. “Look round the table,” she said. ‘You!’ ‘Yes, it is I, mademoiselle,’ he continued in his own tongue. “I see the pointer,” she said. I’ve been wondering where she got her dogged will, and that hot-headed adventurous spirit, for it wasn’t from either Mary or Nicholas, that’s sure. I can see the whole thing was just a set-up for sequels, though. Nothing, however, could be discerned, except the crumbling brickwork. Nature is God, Anna, and the greatest artist of us all a pigmy.
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