Gradually the little criticisms, the little sensations, were lost, thought also went, everything borne along in one flood.

He became, not a man with a mind, but a great instinct.
His hands were like creatures, living; his limbs, his body, were all life and consciousness, subject to no will of his, but living in themselves.

Just as he was, so it seemed the vigorous, wintry stars were strong also with life.

He and they struck with the same pulse of fire, and the same joy of strength which held the bracken-frond stiff near his eyes held his own body firm.

It was as if he, and the stars, and the dark herbage, and Clara were licked up in an immense tongue of flame, which tore onwards and upwards.