She wanted to buy St. Mawr.
She wanted him to belong to her. For some reason the sight of him, his power, his alive, alert intensity, his unyieldingness, made her want to cry.
She never did cry: except sometimes with vexation, or to get her own way . As far as weeping went, her heart felt as dry as a Christmas walnut. What was the good of tears, anyhow ? You had to keep on holding on, in this life, never give way, and never give in. Tears only left one weakened and ragged.
But now , as if that mysterious fire of the horse’s body had split some rock in her, she went home and hid herself in her room, and just cried. The wild, brilliant, alert head of St. Mawr seemed to look at her out of another world . It was as if she had had a vision, as if the walls of her own world had suddenly melted away, leaving her in a great darkness, in the midst of which the large, brilliant eyes of that horse looked at her with demonish question, while his naked ears stood up like daggers from the nakedlines of his inhuman head, and his great body glowed red with power.
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