As by some such law as lurks in meteorological toy for our guidance
in climes close-knit with Irony for bewilderment, making egress of old
woman synchronise inevitably with old man's ingress, or the other way
about, the force that closed the aphorist's eye-lids parted his lips
in degree according. Thus had Euphemia, erect on hearth-rug, a cavern
to gaze down into. Outworks of fortifying ivory cast but denser
shadows into the inexplorable. The solitudes here grew murmurous. To
and fro through secret passages in the recesses leading up deviously
to lesser twin caverns of nose above, the gnomes Morphean went about
their business, whispering at first, but presently bold to wind horns
in unison--Roland-wise, not less.
Euphemia had an ear for it; whim also to construe lord and master
relaxed but reboant and soaring above the verbal to harmonic truths
of abstract or transcendental, to be hummed subsequently by privileged
female audience of one bent on a hook-or-crook plucking out of pith
for salvation.
She caught tablets pendent at her girdle. "_How long_," queried her
stilus, "_has our sex had humour? Jael hammered._"
She might have hitched speculation further. But Mother Earth,
white-mantled, called to her.
Casting eye of caution at recumbence, she paddled across the carpet
and anon swam out over the snow.
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