“Listen, halts Maul, you of little faith. On a certain evening of a certain year 1953 certain strong tensions joined, physical urges and mental flightiness together into a complex, the one mortal, imperfect Eve with a fiercely strong certainty, with strength and determination, corresponding to the excitement, which comes upon the starving saints in the wilderness, the rippling ones, feels the cool drops of God on your tongue and sees the green angels springing up like dandelion leaves, lush and utterly unexpected.”
(I would like to set a smile emoti again, but I do not know, whether Sylvia tolerated something like that.)