“I wonder!” said Miss Stanley. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. The buboes broke and God took Lucia's mother. Here lay a heap of knockers of all sizes, from the huge lion's head to the small brass rapper: there, a collection of sign-boards, with the names and calling of the owners utterly obliterated. It did not occur to her that save for some accidents of education and character they had souls like her own.
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