Time pooled like honey.
        "Why are there so many chambers?"
        "What?" Violet turned, raised her brows, took up her skirts and went to her pupils.
        They were standing over the specimen. The bench was spattered and stained.
Nicked frequently, charred intermittently. The light from high bare windows was adequate.
        "Why are there so many chambers?"
        Incontestable.
        "In hearts?"
        The young women laughed.
        "There are so many rooms. Why are there so many?"
        "Chamfered is the word, and what it can mean, and what it does mean---" Violet went on to tell them and she told it like a magical tale, like a challenge to mystery, an adventure irresistible for any right-thinking female with the sense and discrimination not foreign to the human species but not ubiquitous either.
        And while she told them she illumined far clefts, secret boxes, deep pockets within her where lay sleeping and precious certain memories.
        Broad fields, brilliant butterflies, both were sunned, fertile, treasured, chamfered.
        Costumes were; she had seen a chamfered weskit covering a matchless breast.
        Not the form, no, not the form, this time, but the content. What the breast contained, what the heart possessed.
        It was silly, in actuality.
        Violet went quietly to the row of windows and looked out upon the rooftops. The heart was not the seat of anything except blood. Whence sprang courage, compassion, intuition, passion, why, to attempt that encompassment was foolhardy and impossible. Is that why only the young inquired and the old possessed such eyes?