" CHAPTER V. Howard Spurlock. In the heart of the jungle the dog had his private muck baths. “So am I the jewel or the bug inside?” He smiled. It feels like too much gold-dust clutched in one’s hand. ’ ‘I don’t want to think it,’ he said, and she thrilled to the savagery in his tone. Picked up the photograph, looked at it, handed it back, and never batted an eye! The act was as clear as daylight, but the motive was as profoundly mysterious as the race itself. She became more and more alive, not so much to a system of ideas as to a big diffused impulse toward change, to a great discontent with and criticism of life as it is lived, to a clamorous confusion of ideas for reconstruction—reconstruction of the methods of business, of economic development, of the rules of property, of the status of children, of the clothing and feeding and teaching of every one; she developed a quite exaggerated consciousness of a multitude of people going about the swarming spaces of London with their minds full, their talk and gestures full, their very clothing charged with the suggestion of the urgency of this pervasive project of alteration. Socks and shoes were harder to find, and she ended up wearing men’s athletic tube socks and a pair of dust caked flip-flops that had sat forlornly in Locker 49 since 1978. “Your name and address in his pocket was no delusion,” he said sharply.
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