"Of—life—and—of—death."
"And not being able to tear herself away to go to bed. She thought we were wise, Otto. She used to drink in every word we said. And then she'd scold us for staying up all night. Old Mutter Schwegel. I've thought of her often—"
Kurz made a movement toward him.
"And of me, Charlie?—You had thought of me?"
"I say, rather—! Many a time—when they called me back from the university—even after I went out to France—I thought of you."
His mind was muddled a bit. He put it down to the excitement of his coming home. That uncertain feeling came over him again quite strongly. But he had thought of Otto. He remembered he had thought of Otto a lot.
"And what was it you thought of me, Charlie?"
It came back to him that there had been one time when he had thought of Otto particularly. That one time when something tremendous had happened to him. He could not quite think what. He knew he had been glad when he thought of Otto because he had been spared inflicting the thing on him.
He could not get it clear.
He avoided looking at Kurz.