When the paroxysm passed, he was forced to lean against the window-jamb for support. “The rarefied air? I thought you had a better head. A wave of pity went over him—pity for the patient, the girl, and his friend. I’ve got a lot of things to think about. ‘Assuredly it is locked up. How are you?” “I’m fine,” she said, unaware of all events except for the voice on the other line. Sometimes I tremble, Anna, to think how near I came to passing through life without a single glimpse, a moment’s revelation of this greatest and most awful of mysteries, the mystery of primaeval nature.
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