“He sat at Twitchett’s table,” she mused, “with a dirty ruff on.⁠ ⁠… Was it old Mr. Baker come to measure the timber? Or was it Sh⁠—p⁠—re? (for when we speak names we deeply reverence to ourselves we never speak them whole). She gazed for ten minutes ahead of her, letting the car come almost to a standstill.

“Haunted!” she cried, suddenly pressing the accelerator. “Haunted! ever since I was a child. There flies the wild goose. It flies past the window out to sea. Up I jumped (she gripped the steering-wheel tighter) and stretched after it. But the goose flies too fast. I’ve seen it, here⁠—there⁠—there⁠—England, Persia, Italy. Always it flies fast out to sea and always I fling after it words like nets (here she flung her hand out) which shrivel as I’ve seen nets shrivel drawn on deck with only seaweed in them; and sometimes there’s an inch of silver⁠—six words⁠—in the bottom of the net. But never the great fish who lives in the coral groves.” Here she bent her head, pondering deeply.