That is, how many dead souls fly over our untidiness like swallows and build under the eaves of the living.

How many dead souls, like swallows, twitter and breed thoughts and instincts under the thatch of my hair and the eaves of my forehead, I don't know.

But I believe a good many.

And I hope they have a good time.

And I hope not too many are bats.
I am sorry to say I believe in the souls of the dead.