A crack across the corner of the glass was lighted up, and looked like a little sprig of lightning, plucked from a passing storm and preserved in the glass.
Miss Ford suddenly began to talk in a very quick and confused way.

Any sane hearer would have known that she was talking by mistake, that she was possessed by some distressingly Anti-Ford spirit, and that nothing she might say in parenthesis like this ought to be remembered against her.
"Oh, God," said Miss Ford, "I have come because I am hungry, hungry for what you spoke of last night, in the dark....

You spoke of an April sea--clashing of cymbals was the expression you used, wasn't it?
You spoke of a shore of brown diamonds flat to the ruffled sea ...

and white sandhills under a thin veil of grass ...

and tamarisks all blown one way...." "Well ?" said the witch.
"Well," faltered Miss Ford.