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Rh "Oh, Auntie, it's all words . . . soft, gentle words! . . . I understand you: it is your own story, your parable. But, until now, mine . . . is nothing but the river . . . and the leaf. . . ."

"And later perhaps there will come . . . the tiny treasure, the grain. . . ."

Then they were silent; and Constance thought:

"Every soul must first go through that, must have its dream. . . . Not until very late does it find the grain . . . for itself. What another communicates to it never satisfies its hunger as does its own grain . . . the grain it has found for itself . . ."