fragrance. Then he saw that the normal was the rarest thing in the world. Everyone had some defect, of
body or of mind: he thought of all the people he had known (the whole world was like a sick-house, and
there was no rhyme or reason in it), he saw a long procession, deformed in body and warped in mind,
some with illness of the flesh, weak hearts or weak lungs, and some with illness of the spirit, languor
of will, or a craving for liquor. At this moment he could feel a holy compassion for them all. They were
the helpless instruments of blind chance. He could pardon Griffiths for his treachery and Mildred for the
pain she had caused him. They could not help themselves. The only reasonable thing was to accept
the good of men and be patient with their faults. The words of the dying God crossed his memory:
Forgive them, for they know not what they do.