I felt the plangent reverberation in the meadow. It did not issue from the tall slate spire I glimpsed through webby extreme reaches of the coppice. Narrow, proud, fierce, humble, compassionate, the spire dimming in the thickening distance softening through vapors which so constructed me that I felt them move in liquid heart and brain.
        I knew what Ringa knew, what Cleo knew, what Ringa felt quivered like freshly peeled sentient flesh flayed, devoured, flaunted the towering fact: the Countess was dead.