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MacDonald, George, 1824-1905

"Robert Falconer"

'But I perfectly
understand what you mean. Why is it, do you think?'
'Partly, I fancy, because it is like the primordial chaos, a
concentrated tumult of undetermined possibilities. The germs of
infinite adventure and result are floating around you like a
snow-storm. You do not know what may arise in a moment and colour
all your future. Out of this mass may suddenly start something
marvellous, or, it may be, something you have been looking for for
years.'
The same moment, a fierce flash of lightning, like a blue
sword-blade a thousand times shattered, quivered and palpitated
about us, leaving a thick darkness on the sense. I heard my
companion give a suppressed cry, and saw him run up against a heavy
drayman who was on the edge of the path, guiding his horses with his
long whip. He begged the man's pardon, put his hand to his head,
and murmured, 'I shall know him now.' I was afraid for a moment
that the lightning had struck him, but he assured me there was
nothing amiss. He looked a little excited and confused, however.
I should have forgotten the incident, had he not told me
afterwards--when I had come to know him intimately--that in the
moment of that lightning flash, he had had a strange experience: he
had seen the form of his father, as he had seen him that Sunday
afternoon, in the midst of the surrounding light. He was as certain
of the truth of the presentation as if a gradual revival of memory
had brought with it the clear conviction of its own accuracy.


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