"Perhaps. But that wasn't my object. Thank God, I am a writer, and not a thinker."
And he continued to travesty the truth, and I was impotent—the truth, that profound thing whose voice was in my ears, whose shadow was in my eyes, and whose taste was in my mouth.
Was I so utterly forsaken? Would no one speak the word I was in search of?
. . . . .
The Room was flooded with moonlight. In that magnificent setting there was an obscure white couple, two silent human beings with marble faces.
The fire was out. The clock had finished its work and had stopped, and was listening with its heart.
The man's face dominated. The woman was at his feet. They did nothing. An air of tenderness hovered over them. They looked like monuments gazing at the moon.
He spoke. I recognised his voice. It lit up his face for me, which had been shrouded from my sight before. It was /he,/ the nameless lover and poet whom I had seen twice before.
He was telling Amy that on his way that evening he had met a poor woman, with her baby in her arms.
She walked, jostled and borne along by the crowd returning home from work, and finally was tossed aside up against a post under a porch, and stopped as though nailed there.