“I think he’s waking.” She is up and a-bustle, the children secreting themselves in corners, older ones shepherding younger ones to nearby rooms. Mary beckons Franklin in. Mason is gone gray, metallic whiskers sprout from his Face, even his eyelashes are grizzl’d. Franklin is surpriz’d to find that Mason has lost his Squint, that as the years have pass’d, his Face has been able somehow to enter the Ease of a Symmetry it must ever have sought, once he abandon’d the Night Sky, and took refuge indoors from the Day.
