The subway was crowded. Meaty faces lined in pink, pale array before him. A woman, mother of too many, rubbed a glove over her nose, worry misting her eyes, a dustpan supporting her neck. Across from her perched a she-gazelle on meatless haunches, hair and breasts correctly arranged. The train stopped and Martin went up the stairs into the cold wind. He entered a building and walked down the hall to Deane’s apartment.
She opened the door and stood before him, a bright, tremulous blur. He swayed a little and she caught him by the shoulder, assisting him into the room. He tried to stand straight, smiling gently through his brackish eyes.
“It’s all right, Deane, but I can’t stop my mind,” he said. “I can’t stop it from turning.” He licked the dry scale of his lips. “I can’t do it.” He closed his eyes tightly to keep in the moisture and talked on rapidly, glibly.
From the window came the city lights. Deane sat in a chair, brooding, a frightened look on her face; for Martin’s hysteria grew in the strength of evening. His motions became more selfish. Every idea turned upon itself.
“Somewhere,” he said, “there is a worm. A relentless worm canting my words, embarrassing me—deep, vicious and blinding.”
“What do you want me to do, Martin?” All of Deane’s tolerance—her understanding and affection were contained in this question; but he was deafened with pain and apprehension and all the seeds of disaster which fall, germinate and grow so swiftly in certain poisonous gardens. He put his hand across his face.
“Let’s get a doctor,” he said. “A magical doctor ... a sorcerer ... a doctor for a sorcerer.”
Deane nodded her head. And if he could have seen her then, in the gown he loved and with all the concern in her eyes, it might have taken him from this evil spell. But he was blind and sick and walked like a dead man; while in his agony he cried, “No! Nothing! Get nothing!” Tormented, he went across the room to her, and as he faltered, Deane caught him in her arms.