“Who put it there?” I asked.
“I did.”
“Well, that’s what she was looking for,” I said.
I held out the Token to him on the palm of my hand, as if it were the proof that I had seen her.
“Helen,” he said gravely, “I think you must be ill.”
“You think so? I’m not so ill that I don’t know what you put it away for,” I said. “It was because she thought you cared for it more than you did for her.”
“You can remind me of that? There must be something very badly wrong with you, Helen,” he said.
“Perhaps. Perhaps I only want to know what she wanted.... You did care for her, Donald?”
I couldn’t see the phantasm now, but I could feel it, close, close, vibrating, palpitating, as I drove him.
“Care?” he cried. “I was mad with caring for her! And she knew it.”