Волны

           Andthereismyfather,withhisbackturned,talkingtoafarmer.Itremble,Icry.Thereismyfatheringaiters.Thereismyfather.’

           ’IsitsnuginmyowncornergoingNorth,’saidJinny,’inthisroaringexpresswhichisyetsosmooththatitflattenshedges,lengthenshills.Weflashpastsignal-boxes;wemaketheearthrockslightlyfromsidetoside.Thedistanceclosesforeverinapoint;andweforeveropenthedistancewideagain.Thetelegraphpolesbobupincessantly;oneisfelled,anotherrises.Nowweroarandswingintoatunnel.Thegentlemanpullsupthewindow.Iseereflectionsontheshiningglasswhichlinesthetunnel.Iseehimlowerhispaper.Hesmilesatmyreflectioninthetunnel.Mybodyinstantlyofitsownaccordputsforthafrillunderhisgaze.Mybodylivesalifeofitsown.Nowtheblackwindowglassisgreenagain.Weareoutofthetunnel.Hereadshispaper.Butwehaveexchangedtheapprovalofourbodies.Thereisthenagreatsocietyofbodies,andmineisintroduced;minehascomeintotheroomwherethegiltchairsare.Look--allthewindowsofthevillasandtheirwhite-tentedcurtainsdance;andthemensittinginthehedgesinthecornfieldswithknottedbluehandkerchiefsareawaretoo,asIamaware,ofheatandrapture.Onewavesaswepasshim.Therearebowersandarboursinthesevillagardensandyoungmeninshirt-sleevesonladderstrimmingroses.Amanonahorsecantersoverthefield.Hishorseplungesaswepass.Andtheriderturnstolookatus.Weroaragainthroughblackness.