“It’s the warming up of the year, the coming of the light mornings, the way in which everything begins to run about and begin new things. One of the shutters was a trifle damaged, letting in added light. It filled his thoughts for the rest of the day, and became an obsession. What had urged her to wrench loose and fly was the guarding instinct of the good woman. You are wrong even about that man’s scientific position and his standard of work. Those I don’t mind, though, the games. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. Indeed it was apparent, from the likeness between them, that they were nearly related. “It’s THE Society!” said Miss Miniver.
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