“I’ll come to the station,” said Ann Veronica. Beyond that everything was nebulous. He pulled on his pants, his yellow shirt with the ridiculous horse logo, his brown socks, and shoes. Many things were only words, sounds; she could not construct these words and sounds into objects; or, if she did, invariably missed the mark. For a long time he remained standing before the fire, staring at the situation. She wondered even at this late day how she had been able to hold her maddening curiosity in check. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. Profoundly.
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