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"
Her
eyes
,
her
hair
,
her
cheek
,
her
gait
,
her
voice
;
Handlest
in
thy
discourse
O
!
that
her
hand
,
In
whose
comparison
all
whites
are
ink
Writing
their
own
reproach
;
to
whose
soft
seizure
The
cygnet
’
s
down
is
harsh
.
.
.
"
A
fly
buzzed
round
her
;
he
waved
it
away
.
"
Flies
,
"
he
remembered
,
"
On
the
white
wonder
of
dear
Juliet
’
s
hand
,
may
seize
And
steal
immortal
blessing
from
her
lips
,
Who
,
even
in
pure
and
vestal
modesty
,
Still
blush
,
as
thinking
their
own
kisses
sin
.
"
Very
slowly
,
with
the
hesitating
gesture
of
one
who
reaches
forward
to
stroke
a
shy
and
possibly
rather
dangerous
bird
,
he
put
out
his
hand
.
It
hung
there
trembling
,
within
an
inch
of
those
limp
fingers
,
on
the
verge
of
contact
.
Did
he
dare
?
Dare
to
profane
with
his
unworthiest
hand
that
.
.
.
No
,
he
didn
’
t
.
The
bird
was
too
dangerous
.
His
hand
dropped
back
.
How
beautiful
she
was
!
How
beautiful
!
Then
suddenly
he
found
himself
reflecting
that
he
had
only
to
take
hold
of
the
zipper
at
her
neck
and
give
one
long
,
strong
pull
.
.
.
He
shut
his
eyes
,
he
shook
his
head
with
the
gesture
of
a
dog
shaking
its
ears
as
it
emerges
from
the
water
.
Detestable
thought
!
He
was
ashamed
of
himself
.
Pure
and
vestal
modesty
.
.
.
There
was
a
humming
in
the
air
.
Another
fly
trying
to
steal
immortal
blessings
?
A
wasp
?
He
looked
,
saw
nothing
.
The
humming
grew
louder
and
louder
,
localized
itself
as
being
outside
the
shuttered
windows
The
plane
!
In
a
panic
,
he
scrambled
to
his
feet
and
ran
into
the
other
room
,
vaulted
through
the
open
window
,
and
hurrying
along
the
path
between
the
tall
agaves
was
in
time
to
receive
Bernard
Marx
as
he
climbed
out
of
the
helicopter
.
The
hands
of
all
the
four
thousand
electric
clocks
in
all
the
Bloomsbury
Centre
’
s
four
thousand
rooms
marked
twenty
-
seven
minutes
past
two
.
"
This
hive
of
industry
,
"
as
the
Director
was
fond
of
calling
it
,
was
in
the
full
buzz
of
work
.
Every
one
was
busy
,
everything
in
ordered
motion
.
Under
the
microscopes
,
their
long
tails
furiously
lashing
,
spermatozoa
were
burrowing
head
first
into
eggs
;
and
,
fertilized
,
the
eggs
were
expanding
,
dividing
,
or
if
bokanovskified
,
budding
and
breaking
up
into
whole
populations
of
separate
embryos
.
From
the
Social
Predestination
Room
the
escalators
went
rumbling
down
into
the
basement
,
and
there
,
in
the
crimson
darkness
,
stewingly
warm
on
their
cushion
of
peritoneum
and
gorged
with
blood
-
surrogate
and
hormones
,
the
foetuses
grew
and
grew
or
,
poisoned
,
languished
into
a
stunted
Epsilonhood
.
With
a
faint
hum
and
rattle
the
moving
racks
crawled
imperceptibly
through
the
weeks
and
the
recapitulated
aeons
to
where
,
in
the
Decanting
Room
,
the
newly
-
unbottled
babes
uttered
their
first
yell
of
horror
and
amazement
.
The
dynamos
purred
in
the
sub
-
basement
,
the
lifts
rushed
up
and
down
.
On
all
the
eleven
floors
of
Nurseries
it
was
feeding
time
.
From
eighteen
hundred
bottles
eighteen
hundred
carefully
labelled
infants
were
simultaneously
sucking
down
their
pint
of
pasteurized
external
secretion
.
Above
them
,
in
ten
successive
layers
of
dormitory
,
the
little
boys
and
girls
who
were
still
young
enough
to
need
an
afternoon
sleep
were
as
busy
as
every
one
else
,
though
they
did
not
know
it
,
listening
unconsciously
to
hypnopædic
lessons
in
hygiene
and
sociability
,
in
class
-
consciousness
and
the
toddler
’
s
love
-
life
.
Above
these
again
were
the
playrooms
where
,
the
weather
having
turned
to
rain
,
nine
hundred
older
children
were
amusing
themselves
with
bricks
and
clay
modelling
,
hunt
-
the
?
zipper
,
and
erotic
play
.
