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"The beasts that talk,
The streams that stand,
The stones that walk,
The singing sands,
. . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . .
That guard the way
To Paradise..." |
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| In the morning, he woke with rheumatism in his right shoulder. He lay considering this in slow amusement. There was no end to what your subconscious and your body could achieve between them. They could provide you with any alibi you wanted. A perfectly good honest alibi. He had known husbands who developed high temperatures and the symptoms of flu each time their wives were on the point of departure to visit relations. He had known women who were so tough that they could watch a razor fight unmoved and yet would pass out in the deadest of dead faints when asked an awkward question.("Was the accused so persecuted by police cross-examination that she was unconscious for fifteen minutes?" "She fainted, certainly." "There was no question of a simulated faint, was there? The doctor says that he saw her at the material time and there was difficulty in reviving her. And that collapse was a direct result of the police cross-examination to which she was being -" and so on.) Oh, yes. There was no limit to what your subconscious and your body could cook up together. |