But she certainly remembered that when she was a little girl he sometimes wore tennis flannels, and also rode a bicycle very dexterously in through the gates to the front door. The nuns had no regard for the sensibilities of a “lady” and expected Melusine— for it was her allotted task—to clean and tend the soldier’s wounds even when they festered. He knew very well that his muscles were flabby, and his nerve by no means what it should be. She felt as if she had struck them unawares. “Good,” he said, as he watched the colour come back to her cheeks. It dealt from floor to ceiling and end to end with the Theory of the Forms of Life; the very duster by the blackboard was there to do its share in that work, the very washers in the taps; the room was more simply concentrated in aim even than a church. Never really thought about Him—people don’t.
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