The lane behind the terrace was waterlogged and as he went down it slowly, choosing his steps amid heaps of wet rubbish, he heard a mad nun screeching in the nuns' madhouse beyond the wall. "You leave him--?" "So long with Quint? Yes--I don't mind that now. The image, it is clear, must be set between the mind or senses of the artist himself and the mind or senses of others. We are not this story#146;s author, who fills time and eternity with his purpose.