“We are not the sort that goes under,” said Ann Veronica, holding her hands so that the red reflections vanished from her eyes. “And I have dragged you all over here for nothing,” she murmured. She was consumed by misery and hate. And here she was—in a mess because it had been impossible for her to avoid leaning upon another man. This man and he were alike, and about the same age. His name is John. . She shot a sudden glance at him. Was it that the struggle of things to survive produced as a sort of necessary byproduct these intense preferences and appreciations, or was it that some mystical outer thing, some great force, drove life beautyward, even in spite of expediency, regardless of survival value and all the manifest discretions of life? She went to Capes with that riddle and put it to him very carefully and clearly, and he talked well—he always talked at some length when she took a difficulty to him—and sent her to a various literature upon the markings of butterflies, the incomprehensible elaboration and splendor of birds of Paradise and hummingbirds’ plumes, the patterning of tigers, and a leopard’s spots. All the village was assembled in the churchyard. Along the inner side was a wonderfully arranged series of displayed specimens that Russell himself had prepared.
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