“There are different tales, jumbled up. A bit of one and a bit of another. I dare say they could be pieced together. But there are gaps in all of them. I write down any scene—just as I see it.”
“Some of it is bad—incoherent.”
“Yes.”
“And some of it is filthy.”
“You needn’t read that. One writes anything—anything that’s vivid enough to swamp the moment.”
“And some of it is——Lynwood, why didn’t you tell me you wrote this? Why haven’t you read it to me? I judged you only by the gentler stuff. And now, here are passages flaming with vision: the speed and pause, the song and shock of blank verse. Do you realize——”
“Yes—yes; I realize.”
“And you didn’t show it me?”
“It was my own; a kind of sanctuary. Peace there ... everyone shut out by flames.”
John was huddled in his chair, his feet drawn up, his eyes gazing out above his knees. Hartington looked at the lines the writing of which had been interrupted by Aggett’s arrival.