The handle toward my hand?
Come, let me clutch thee.
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight—”
There was a soft footfall behind him, and he turned and saw Patricia at his shoulder.
“Hullo,” she whispered. “What’s going on?”
“Hush,” he said. “This is what Stratford was weeping about.”
“... Now o’er the one-half world
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse