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and that the throes of the thing were as gleeful and strong as if a
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spirit were dancing in its cerements.
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That wind! she would say,
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because it pushed the skirts of her coat against her legs and made the
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strands of her hair fly.
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It came down the lake, and it smelled sweetly of snow,
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and rankly of melting snow, and it called to mind the small,
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scarce stemmy flowers that she and Edmund would walk half
-
a day to pick.
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Did you catch that little transition there, transition from proposition,
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"Say that this happens, say this is what my grandmother did
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and saw and smelled," to a seamless inhabitation through that free,