24 July. Whitby.—Lucy met me at the station, looking sweeter and
lovlier than ever, and we drove up to the house at the Crescent in
which they have rooms. This is a lovely place. The little river,
the Esk, runs through a deep valley, which broadens out as it comes
near the harbour. A great viaduct runs across, with high piers,
through which the view seems somehow further away than it really
is. The valley is beautifully green, and it is so steep that when
you are on the high land on either side you look right across it,
unless you are near enough to see down. The houses of the old
town—the side away from us, are all red-roofed, and seem piled up
one over the other anyhow, like the pictures we see of Nuremberg.
Right over the town is the ruin of Whitby Abbey, which was sacked
by the Danes, and which is the scene of part of “Marmion,” where
the girl was built up in the wall. It is a most noble ruin, of
immense size, and full of beautiful and romantic bits. There is a
legend that a white lady is seen in one of the windows. Between it
and the town there is another church, the parish one, round which
is a big graveyard, all full of tombstones. This is to my mind the
nicest spot in Whitby, for it lies right over the town, and has a
full view of the harbour and all up the bay to where the headland
called Kettleness stretches out into the sea. It descends so
steeply over the harbour that part of the bank has fallen away, and
some of the graves have been destroyed.
In one place part of the stonework of the graves stretches out
over the sandy pathway far below. There are walks, with seats
beside them, through the churchyard, and people go and sit there
all day long looking at the beautiful view and enjoying the
breeze.
I shall come and sit here often myself and work. Indeed, I am
writing now, with my book on my knee, and listening to the talk of
three old men who are sitting beside me. They seem to do nothing
all day but sit here and talk.
The harbour lies below me, with, on the far side, one long
granite wall stretching out into the sea, with a curve outwards at
the end of it, in the middle of which is a lighthouse. A heavy
seawall runs along outside of it. On the near side, the seawall
makes an elbow crooked inversely, and its end too has a lighthouse.
Between the two piers there is a narrow opening into the harbour,
which then suddenly widens.
It is nice at high water, but when the tide is out it shoals
away to nothing, and there is merely the stream of the Esk, running
between banks of sand, with rocks here and there. Outside the
harbour on this side there rises for about half a mile a great
reef, the sharp of which runs straight out from behind the south
lighthouse. At the end of it is a buoy with a bell, which swings in
bad weather, and sends in a mournful sound on the wind.
They have a legend here that when a ship is lost bells are heard
out at sea. I must ask the old man about this. He is coming this
way …
He is a funny old man. He must be awfully old, for his face is
gnarled and twisted like the bark of a tree. He tells me that he is
nearly a hundred, and that he was a sailor in the Greenland fishing
fleet when Waterloo was fought. He is, I am afraid, a very
sceptical person, for when I asked him about the bells at sea and
the White Lady at the abbey he said very brusquely,
“I wouldn’t fash masel’ about them, miss. Them things be all
wore out. Mind, I don’t say that they never was, but I do say that
they wasn’t in my time. They be all very well for comers and
trippers, an’ the like, but not for a nice young lady like you.
Them feet-folks from York and Leeds that be always eatin’cured
herrin’s and drinkin’ tea an’ lookin’ out to buy cheap jet would
creed aught. I wonder masel’ who’d be bothered tellin’ lies to
them, even the newspapers, which is full of fool-talk.”
I thought he would be a good person to learn interesting things
from, so I asked him if he would mind telling me something about
the whale fishing in the old days. He was just settling himself to
begin when the clock struck six, whereupon he laboured to get up,
and said,
“I must gang ageeanwards home now, miss. My granddaughter
doesn’t like to be kept waitin’ when the tea is ready, for it takes
me time to crammle aboon the grees, for there be a many of `em, and
miss, I lack belly-timber sairly by the clock.”
He hobbled away, and I could see him hurrying, as well as he
could, down the steps. The steps are a great feature on the place.
They lead from the town to the church, there are hundreds of them,
I do not know how many, and they wind up in a delicate curve. The
slope is so gentle that a horse could easily walk up and down them.
I think they must originally have had something to do with the
abbey. I shall go home too. Lucy went out, visiting with her
mother, and as they were only duty calls, I did not go.
1 August.—I came up here an hour ago with Lucy, and we had a
most interesting talk with my old friend and the two others who
always come and join him. He is evidently the Sir Oracle of them,
and I should think must have been in his time a most dictatorial
person.
He will not admit anything, and down faces everybody. If he
can’t out-argue them he bullies them, and then takes their silence
for agreement with his views.
Lucy was looking sweetly pretty in her white lawn frock. She has
got a beautiful colour since she has been here.
I noticed that the old men did not lose any time in coming and
sitting near her when we sat down. She is so sweet with old people,
I think they all fell in love with her on the spot. Even my old man
succumbed and did not contradict her, but gave me double share
instead. I got him on the subject of the legends , and he went off
at once into a sort of sermon. I must try to remember it and put it
down.
“It be all fool-talk, lock, stock, and barrel, that’s what it be
and nowt else. These bans an’ wafts an’ boh-ghosts an’ bar-guests
an’ bogles an’ all anent them is only fit to set bairns an’ dizzy
women a’belderin’. They be nowt but air-blebs. They, an’ all grims
an’ signs an’ warnin’s, be all invented by parsons an’ illsome
berk-bodies an’ railway touters to skeer an’ scunner hafflin’s, an’
to get folks to do somethin’ that they don’t other incline to. It
makes me ireful to think o’ them. Why, it’s them that, not content
with printin’ lies on paper an’ preachin’ them ou t of pulpits,
does want to be cuttin’ them on the tombstones. Look here all
around you in what airt ye will. All them steans, holdin’ up their
heads as well as they can out of their pride, is acant, simply
tumblin’ down with the weight o’ the lies wrote on them, `Here lies
the body’ or `Sacred to the memory’ wrote on all of them, an’ yet
in nigh half of them there bean’t no bodies at all, an’ the
memories of them bean’t cared a pinch of snuff about, much less
sacred. Lies all of them, nothin’ but lies of one kind or another!
My gog, but it’ll be a quare scowderment at the Day of Judgment
when they come tumblin’ up in their death-sarks, all jouped
together an’ trying’ to drag their tombsteans with them to prove
how good they was, some of them trimmlin’ an’ dithering, with their
hands that dozzened an’ slippery from lyin’ in the sea that they
can’t even keep their gurp o’ them.”
I could see from the old fellow’s self-satisfied air and the way
in which he looked round for the approval of his cronies that he
was “showing off,” so I put in a word to keep him going.
“Oh, Mr. Swales, you can’t be serious. Surely these tombstones
are not all wrong?”
“Yabblins! There may be a poorish few not wrong, savin’ where
they make out the people too good, for there be folk that do think
a balm-bowl be like the sea, if only it be their own. The whole
thing be only lies. Now look you here. You come here a stranger,
an’ you see this kirkgarth.”
I nodded, for I thought it better to assent, though I did not
quite understand his dialect. I knew it had something to do with
the church.
He went on, “And you consate that all these steans be aboon folk
that be haped here, snod an’ snog?” I assented again. “Then that be
just where the lie comes in. Why, there be scores of these laybeds
that be toom as old Dun’s `baccabox on Friday night.”
He nudged one of his companions, and they all laughed. “And, my
gog! How could they be otherwise? Look at that one, the aftest
abaft the bier-bank, read it!”
I went over and read, “Edward Spencelagh, master mariner,
murdered by pirates off the coast of Andres, April, 1854, age 30.”
When I came back Mr. Swales went on,
“Who brought him home, I wonder, to hap him here? Murdered off
the coast of Andres! An’ you consated his body lay under! Why, I
could name ye a dozen whose bones lie in the Greenland seas above,”
he pointed northwards, “or where the currants may have drifted
them. There be the steans around ye. Ye can, with your young eyes,
read the small print of the lies from here. This Braithwaite
Lowery, I knew his father, lost in the Lively off Greenland in `20,
or Andrew Woodhouse, drowned in the same seas in 1777, or John
Paxton, drowned off Cape Farewell a year later, or old John
Rawlings, whose grandfather sailed with me, drowned in the Gulf of
Finland in `50. Do ye think that all these men will have to make a
rush to Whitby when the trumpet sounds? I have me antherums aboot
it! I tell ye that when they got here they’d be jommlin’ and
jostlin’ one another that way that it `ud be like a fight up on the
ice in the old days, when we’d be at one another from daylight to
dark, an’ tryin’ to tie up our cuts by the aurora borealis.” This
was evidently local pleasantry, for the old man cackled over it,
and his cronies joined in with gusto.
“But,” I said, “surely you are not quite correct, for you start
on the assumption that all the poor people, or their spirits, will
have to take their tombstones with them on the Day of Judgment. Do
you think that will be really necessary?”
“Well, what else be they tombstones for? Answer me that,
miss!”
“To please their relatives, I suppose.”
“To please their relatives, you suppose!” This he said with
intense scorn. “How will it pleasure their relatives to know that
lies is wrote over them, and that everybody in the place knows that
they be lies?”
He pointed to a stone at our feet which had been laid down as a
slab, on which the seat was rested, close to the edge of the cliff.
“Read the lies on that thruff-stone,” he said.
The letters were upside down to me from where I sat, but Lucy
was more opposite to them, so she leant over and read, “Sacred to
the memory of George Canon, who died, in the hope of a glorious
resurrection, on July 29,1873,falling from the rocks at Kettleness.
This tomb was erected by his sorrowing mother to her dearly beloved
son.`He was the only son of his mother, and she was a widow.’
Really, Mr. Swales, I don’t see anything very funny in that!” She
spoke her comment very gravely and somewhat severely.
“Ye don’t see aught funny! Ha-ha! But that’s because ye don’t
gawm the sorrowin’mother was a hell-cat that hated him because he
was acrewk’d, a regular lamiter he was, an’ he hated her so that he
committed suicide in order that she mightn’t get an insurance she
put on his life. He blew nigh the top of his head off with an old
musket that they had for scarin’ crows with. `twarn’t for crows
then, for it brought the clegs and the dowps to him. That’s the way
he fell off the rocks. And, as to hopes of a glorious resurrection,
I’ve often heard him say masel’ that he hoped he’d go to hell, for
his mother was so pious that she’d be sure to go to heaven, an’ he
didn’t want to addle where she was. Now isn’t that stean at any
rate,”he hammered it with his stick as he spoke, “a pack of lies?
And won’t it make Gabriel keckle when Geordie comes pantin’ ut the
grees with the tompstean balanced on his hump, and asks to be took
as evidence!”
I did not know what to say, but Lucy turned the conversation as
she said, rising up, “Oh, why did you tell us of this? It is my
favorite seat, and I cannot leave it, and now I find I must go on
sitting over the grave of a suicide.”
“That won’t harm ye, my pretty, an’ it may make poor Geordie
gladsome to have so trim a lass sittin’ on his lap. That won’t hurt
ye. Why, I’ve sat here off an’ on for nigh twenty years past, an’
it hasn’t done me no harm. Don’t ye fash about them as lies under
ye, or that doesn’ lie there either! It’ll be time for ye to be
getting scart when ye see the tombsteans all run away with, and the
place as bare as a stubble-field. There’s the clock, and’I must
gang. My service to ye, ladies!” And off he hobbled.
Lucy and I sat awhile, and it was all so beautiful before us
that we took hands as we sat, and she told me all over again about
Arthur and their coming marriage. That made me just a little
heart-sick, for I haven’t heard from Jonathan for a whole
month.
The same day. I came up here alone, for I am very sad. There was
no letter for me. I hope there cannot be anything the matter with
Jonathan. The clock has just struck nine. I see the lights
scattered all over the town, sometimes in rows where the streets
are, and sometimes singly. They run right up the Esk and die away
in the curve of the valley. To my left the view is cut off by a
black line of roof of the old house next to the abbey. The sheep
and lambs are bleating in the fields away behind me, and there is a
clatter of donkeys’ hoofs up the paved road below. The band on the
pier is playing a harsh waltz in good time, and further along the
quay there is a Salvation Army meeting in a back street. Neither of
the bands hears the other, but up here I hear and see them both. I
wonder where Jonathan is and if he is thinking of me! I wish he
were here.
DR. SEWARD’S DIARY
5 June.—The case of Renfield grows more interesting the more I
get to understand the man. He has certain qualities very largely
developed, selfishness, secrecy, and purpose.
I wish I could get at what is the object of the latter. He seems
to have some settled scheme of his own, but what it is I do not
know. His redeeming quality is a love of animals, though, indeed,
he has such curious turns in it that I sometimes imagine he is only
abnormally cruel. His pets are of odd sorts.
Just now his hobby is catching flies. He has at present such a
quantity that I have had myself to expostulate. To my astonishment,
he did not break out into a fury, as I expected, but took the
matter in simple seriousness. He thought for a moment, and then
said, “May I have three days? I shall clear them away.” Of course,
I said that would do. I must watch him.
18 June.—He has turned his mind now to spiders, and has got
several very big fellows in a box. He keeps feeding them his flies,
and the number of the latter is becoming sensibly diminished,
although he has used half his food in attracting more flies from
outside to his room.
1 July.—His spiders are now becoming as great a nuisance as his
flies, and today I told him that he must get rid of them.
He looked very sad at this, so I said that he must some of them,
at all events. He cheerfully acquiesced in this, and I gave him the
same time as before for reduction.
He disgusted me much while with him, for when a horrid blowfly,
bloated with some carrion food, buzzed into the room, he caught it,
held it exultantly for a few moments between his finger and thumb,
and before I knew what he was going to do, put it in his mouth and
ate it.
I scolded him for it, but he argued quietly that it was very
good and very wholesome, that it was life, strong life, and gave
life to him. This gave me an idea, or the rudiment of one. I must
watch how he gets rid of his spiders.
He has evidently some deep problem in his mind, for he keeps a
little notebook in which he is always jotting down something. whole
pages of it are filled with masses of figures, generally single
numbers added up in batches, and then the totals added in batches
again, as though he were focussing some account, as the auditors
put it.
8 July.—There is a method in his madness, and the rudimentary
idea in my mind is growing. It will be a whole idea soon, and then,
oh, unconscious cerebration, you will have to give the wall to your
conscious brother.
I kept away from my friend for a few days, so that I might
notice if there were any change. Things remain as they were except
that he has parted with some of his pets and got a new one.
He has managed to get a sparrow, and has already partially tamed
it. His means of taming is simple, for already the spiders have
diminshed. Those that do remain, however, are well fed, for he
still brings in the flies by tempting them with his food.
19 July—We are progressing. My friend has now a whole colony of
sparrows, and his flies and spiders are almost obliterated. When I
came in he ran to me and said he wanted to ask me a great favour, a
very, very great favour. And as he spoke, he fawned on me like a
dog.
I asked him what it was, and he said, with a sort of rapture in
his voice and bearing, “A kitten, a nice, little, sleek playful
kitten, that I can play with, and teach, and feed, and feed, and
feed!”
I was not unprepared for this request, for I had noticed how his
pets went on increasing in size and vivacity, but I did not care
that his pretty family of tame sparrows should be wiped out in the
same manner as the flies and spiders. So I said I would see about
it, and asked him if he would not rather have a cat than a
kitten.
His eagerness betrayed him as he answered, “Oh, yes, I would
like a cat! I only asked for a kitten lest you should refuse me a
cat. No one would refuse me a kitten, would they?”
I shook my head, and said that at present I feared it would not
be possible, but that I would see about it. His face fell, and I
could see a warning of danger in it, for there was a sudden fierce,
sidelong look which meant killing. The man is an undeveloped
homicidal maniac. I shall test him with his present craving and see
how it will work out, then I shall know more.
10 pm.—I have visited him again and found him sitting in a
corner brooding. When I came in he threw himself on his knees
before me and implored me to let him have a cat, that his salvation
depended upon it.
I was firm, however, and told him that he could not have it,
whereupon he went without a word, and sat down, gnawing his
fingers, in the corner where I had found him. I shall see him in
the morning early.
20 July.—Visited Renfield very early, before attendant went his
rounds. Found him up and humming a tune. He was spreading out his
sugar, which he had saved, in the window, and was manifestly
beginning his fly catching again, and beginning it cheerfully and
with a good grace.
I looked around for his birds, and not seeing them,asked him
where they were. He replied, without turning round, that they had
all flown away. There were a few feathers about the room and on his
pillow a drop of blood. I said nothing, but went and told the
keeper to report to me if there were anything odd about him during
the day.
11 am.—The attendant has just been to see me to say that
Renfield has been very sick and has disgorged a whole lot of
feathers. “My belief is, doctor,” he said, “that he has eaten his
birds, and that he just took and ate them raw!”
11 pm.—I gave Renfield a strong opiate tonight, enough to make
even him sleep, and took away his pocketbook to look at it. The
thought that has been buzzing about my brain lately is complete,
and the theory proved.
My homicidal maniac is of a peculiar kind. I shall have to
invent a new classification for him, and call him a zoophagous
(life-eating) maniac. What he desires is to absorb as many lives as
he can, and he has laid himself out to achieve it in a cumulative
way. He gave many flies to one spider and many spiders to one bird,
and then wanted a cat to eat the many birds. What would have been
his later steps?
It would almost be worth while to complete the experiment. It
might be done if there were only a sufficient cause. Men sneered at
vivisection, and yet look at its results today! Why not advance
science in its most difficult and vital aspect, the knowledge of
the brain?
Had I even the secret of one such mind, did I hold the key to
the fancy of even one lunatic, I might advance my own branch of
science to a pitch compared with which Burdon-Sanderson’s
physiology or Ferrier’s brain knowledge would be as nothing. If
only there were a sufficient cause! I must not think too much of
this, or I may be tempted. A good cause might turn the scale with
me, for may not I too be of an exceptional brain, congenitally?
How well the man reasoned. Lunatics always do within their own
scope. I wonder at how many lives he values a man, or if at only
one. He has closed the account most accurately, and today begun a
new record. How many of us begin a new record with each day of our
lives?
To me it seems only yesterday that my whole life ended with my
new hope, and that truly I began a new record. So it shall be until
the Great Recorder sums me up and closes my ledger account with a
balance to profit or loss.
Oh, Lucy, Lucy, I cannot be angry with you, nor can I be angry
with my friend whose happiness is yours, but I must only wait on
hopeless and work. Work! Work!
If I could have as strong a cause as my poor mad friend there, a
good, unselfish cause to make me work, that would be indeed
happiness.
MINA MURRAY’S JOURNAL
26 July.—I am anxious, and it soothes me to express myself here.
It is like whispering to one’s self and listening at the same time.
And there is also something about the shorthand symbols that makes
it different from writing. I am unhappy about Lucy and about
Jonathan. I had not heard from Jonathan for some time, and was very
concerned, but yesterday dear Mr. Hawkins, who is always so kind,
sent me a letter from him. I had written asking him if he had
heard, and he said the enclosed had just been received. It is only
a line dated from Castle Dracula, and says that he is just starting
for home. That is not like Jonathan. I do not understand it, and it
makes me uneasy.
Then, too, Lucy , although she is so well, has lately taken to
her old habit of walking in her sleep. Her mother has spoken to me
about it, and we have decided that I am to lock the door of our
room every night.
Mrs. Westenra has got an idea that sleep-walkers always go out
on roofs of houses and along the edges of cliffs and then get
suddenly wakened and fall over with a despairing cry that echoes
all over the place.
Poor dear, she is naturally anxious about Lucy, and she tells me
that her husband, Lucy’s father, had the same habit, that he would
get up in the night and dress himself and go out, if he were not
stopped.
Lucy is to be married in the autumn, and she is already planning
out her dresses and how her house is to be arranged. I sympathise
with her, for I do the same, only Jonathan and I will start in life
in a very simple way, and shall have to try to make both ends
meet.
Mr. Holmwood, he is the Hon. Arthur Holmwood, only son of Lord
Godalming, is coming up here very shortly, as soon as he can leave
town, for his father is not very well, and I think dear Lucy is
counting the moments till he comes.
She wants to take him up in the seat on the churchyard cliff and
show him the beauty of Whitby. I daresay it is the waiting which
disturbs her. She will be all right when he arrives.
27 July.—No news from Jonathan. I am getting quite uneasy about
him, though why I should I do not know, but I do wish that he would
write, if it were only a single line.
Lucy walks more than ever, and each night I am awakened by her
moving about the room. Fortunately, the weather is so hot that she
cannot get cold. But still, the anxiety and the perpetually being
awakened is beginning to tell on me, and I am getting nervous and
wakeful myself. Thank God, Lucy’s health keeps up. Mr. Holmwood has
been suddenly called to Ring to see his father, who has been taken
seriously ill. Lucy frets at the postponement of seeing him, but it
does not touch her looks. She is a trifle stouter, and her cheeks
are a lovely rose-pink. She has lost the anemic look which she had.
I pray it will all last.
3 August.—Another week gone by, and no news from Jonathan, not
even to Mr. Hawkins, from whom I have heard. Oh, I do hope he is
not ill. He surely would have written. I look at that last letter
of his, but somehow it does not satisfy me. It does not read like
him, and yet it is his writing. There is no mistake of that.
Lucy has not walked much in her sleep the last week, but there
is an odd concentration about her which I do not understand, even
in her sleep she seems to be watching me. She tries the door, and
finding it locked, goes about the room searching for the key.
6 August.—Another three days, and no news. This suspense is
getting dreadful. If I only knew where to write to or where to go
to, I should feel easier. But no one has heard a word of Jonathan
since that last letter. I must only pray to God for patience.
Lucy is more excitable than ever, but is otherwise well. Last
night was very threatening, and the fishermen say that we are in
for a storm. I must try to watch it and learn the weather
signs.
Today is a gray day, and the sun as I write is hidden in thick
clouds, high over Kettleness. Everything is gray except the green
grass, which seems like emerald amongst it, gray earthy rock, gray
clouds, tinged with the sunburst at the far edge, hang over the
gray sea, into which the sandpoints stretch like gray figures. The
sea is tumbling in over the shallows and the sandy flats with a
roar, muffled in the sea-mists drifting inland. The horizon is lost
in a gray mist. All vastness, the clouds are piled up like giant
rocks, and there is a `brool’ over the sea that sounds like some
passage of doom. Dark figures are on the beach here and there,
sometimes half shrouded in the mist, and seem `men like trees
walking’. The fishing boats are racing for home, and rise and dip
in the ground swell as they sweep into the harbour, bending to the
scuppers. Here comes old Mr. Swales. He is making straight for me,
and I can see, by the way he lifts his hat, that he wants to
talk.
I have been quite touched by the change in the poor old man.
When he sat down beside me, he said in a very gentle way, “I want
to say something to you, miss.”
I could see he was not at ease, so I took his poor old wrinkled
hand in mine and asked him to speak fully.
So he said, leaving his hand in mine, “I’m afraid, my deary,
that I must have shocked you by all the wicked things I’ve been
sayin’ about the dead, and such like, for weeks past, but I didn’t
mean them, and I want ye to remember that when I’m gone. We aud
folks that be daffled, and with one foot abaft the krok-hooal,
don’t altogether like to think of it, and we don’t want to feel
scart of it, and that’s why I’ve took to makin’ light of it, so
that I’d cheer up my own heart a bit. But, Lord love ye, miss, I
ain’t afraid of dyin’, not a bit, only I don’t want to die if I can
help it. My time must be nigh at hand now, for I be aud, and a
hundred years is too much for any man to expect. And I’m so nigh it
that the Aud Man is already whettin’ his scythe. Ye see, I can’t
get out o’ the habit of caffin’ about it all at once. The chafts
will wag as they be used to. Some day soon the Angel of Death will
sound his trumpet for me. But don’t ye dooal an’ greet, my
deary!”—for he saw that I was crying— “if he should come this very
night I’d not refuse to answer his call. For life be, after all,
only a waitin’ for somethin’ else than what we’re doin’, and death
be all that we can rightly depend on. But I’m content, for it’s
comin’ to me, my deary, and comin’ quick. It may be comin’ while we
be lookin’ and wonderin’. Maybe it’s in that wind out over the sea
that’s bringin’ with it loss and wreck, and sore distress, and sad
hearts. Look! Look!” he cried suddenly. “There’s something in that
wind and in the hoast beyont that sounds, and looks, and tastes,
and smells like death. It’s in the air. I feel it comin’. Lord,
make me answer cheerful, when my call comes!” He held up his arms
devoutly, and raised his hat. His mouth moved as though he were
praying. After a few minutes’ silence, he got up, shook hands with
me, and blessed me, and said good-bye, and hobbled off. It all
touched me, and upset me very much.
I was glad when the coastguard came along, with his spyglass
under his arm. He stopped to talk with me, as he always does, but
all the time kept looking at a strange ship.
“I can’t make her out,” he said. “She’s a Russian, by the look
of her. But she’s knocking about in the queerest way. She doesn’t
know her mind a bit. She seems to see the storm coming, but can’t
decide whether to run up north in the open, or to put in here. Look
there again! She is steered mighty strangely, for she doesn’t mind
the hand on the wheel, changes about with every puff of wind. We’ll
hear more of her before this time tomorrow.”
