Fleur，leaningoutofherwindow，heardthehallclock’smuffledchimeoftwelve，thetinysplashofafish，thesuddenshakingofanaspen’sleavesinthepuffsofbreezethatrosealongtheriver，thedistantrumbleofanighttrain，andtimeandagainthesoundswhichnonecanputanametointhedarkness，softobscureexpressionsofuncataloguedemotionsfrommanandbeast，birdandmachine，or，maybe，fromdepartedForsytes，Darties，Cardigans，takingnightstrollsbackintoaworldwhichhadoncesuitedtheirembodiedspirits。ButFleurheedednotthesesounds;herspirit，farfromdisembodied，fledwithswiftwingfromrailway—carriagetofloweryhedge，strainingafterJon，tenaciousofhisforbiddenimage，andthesoundofhisvoice，whichwastaboo。Andshecrinkledhernose，retrievingfromtheperfumeoftheriversidenightthatmomentwhenhishandslippedbetweenthemayflowersandhercheek。Longsheleanedoutinherfreakdress，keentoburnherwingsatlife’scandle;whilethemothsbrushedhercheeksontheirpilgrimagetothelamponherdressing—table，ignorantthatinaForsyte’shousethereisnoopenflame。Butatlastevenshefeltsleepy，and，forgettingherbells，drewquicklyin。
Throughtheopenwindowofhisroom，alongsideAnnette’s，Soames，wakefultoo，heardtheirthinfainttinkle，asitmightbeshakenfromstars，orthedewdropsfallingfromaflower，ifonecouldhearsuchsounds。
’Caprice！’hethought。’Ican’ttell。She’swilful。WhatshallI
do？Fleur！’
Andlongintothe\"small\"nighthebrooded。