CHAPTER 17I still wonder what it is about a wharf that sets the blood to run. They are still along our river, but their planking has rotted, and the weeds grow between the cracks. They were the sea, and more than the sea. They were trade and venture and memory and regret. For the dust of a dozen seaports was stamped into their planking. They were steeped in coral and Carribean sand, and spice and sandalwood and fish and rum and oak. They were the south and east and west, those wharves, the sea and all beside it that partakes of the restiveness of the sea.
Even when they were still they were full of change and hallowed by vain desire, even when the men were gone, and the orders and the creaking of the blocks had gone out with the evening tide. I can still remember how they thrilled with li
