An audible crack sounded in the kitchen and Mark slumped backwards, unconscious. He felt like a boy again, the taste for adventures was keen upon his palate, the whole undiscovered world of rhythmical things, of love and poetry and passion seemed again to him a real and actual place, and he himself an adventurer upon the threshold. For a time he would be the grim Protestant Flagellant, pursuing the idea of self-castigation. Her girl Clarice was next, dying within a single day, blood leaking from her pretty brown eyes like an image of the Blessed Virgin. F. Critically, she stared at her own features. There was a pause, and then the front door slammed.
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