"Thank you for letting me send the books here," he said. The sickness was heavy in the pit of his stomach, and suddenly he was hard and bitter. He quoted softly:
"The world forsaken,
And out of mind
Honor and labor,
We shall not find
The stars unkind."
"Old poetry? I guess you really do read a—" Then understanding made her eyes wince. "That wasn't intended to be very complimentary, was it, Jimmy?"
Her name was no longer Doris; it was any of a thousand, and her perfume, heavy in his nostrils, was not her perfume or any individual's. She was there before him; she was real. But along with her were a thousand names and a thousand scents. There was the painful nostalgia of recognizing a strange room.
Awkwardly he said, "I really must go. I'd like to have a long talk, but—"
Her lips parting in sudden artificiality, she crossed to him, reached for his hand with her own.