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229 pages, Hardcover
First published November 3, 2015
We can imagine Bilgewater crouched over his notebook at the kitchen table, its pages covered with the chicken scratches that he called handwriting, his mind feverishly churning through the calculations that seemed to him to be trying to reveal the great new truth he was seeking. Yet, every time he tried to peer into their mysteries, they seemed to evanesce, to melt away like the morning mists that time he and Evangeline had spent their happy (but not entirely so) second honeymoon among the rolling glades of Tuscany.
Evangeline was now telling him that, if only he'd go out and shoot a few carrots, they could have shepherd's pie for their supper. But he heard her not.
Just a hairsbreadth beyond the boundary of his comprehension there lay . . .
Another patient arrives and, likely with unrecorded frustration, he pulls his eye from his telescope. [p73]