…‘The little brushing kiss fell in the centre of my palm – as a gift on which the fingers were, once, expected to close : as the all-faithful half-reproachful signal of a waiting child not used to neglect even when grown-ups were busiest – a fragment of the mute code devised very long ago.
This is from “They” in Traffics’ and Discoveries. Motoring across the county, the narrator, who had lost a much-loved child years before, happens on a lovely old stone house, set in a yew garden, owned by a beautiful blind woman. The garden is full of sounds and glimpses of children playing. It is only on a later visit that he realises that They are the ghosts of dead children, including his own little daughter…