“They hear it,” he said, “but they do not mark it. It is a constant; they have accustomed themselves. But if I increase the pitch so”—he poured ale into the glass, and it sang out higher—“and so on, eventually, the glass will shatter. That, they will note. There will be a great fussing with cloths and restitution and a new glass, as if it were a surprise. But the warning has been sounding”—he made the glass sing again—“all along. Do you understand?” “I do not, I confess.” I was held by the lights that moved in his eyes. “It is so that death sits beside us every day, until it is forced upon our
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