Fate, weaving the destiny of two O'Neills, would have changed her loom.

As it was, sick with brooding and pity for himself, Kenny abandoned all pretense of labor and rushed on blindly to his fate.

The spring was in his blood.

What form of midsummer madness lay ahead of him depended now upon the hairtrigger of impulse.

A wind, a sketch, the perfume of a flower, and he would be off wherever the reminiscence called him.