But though I believed my brain thus occupied, my every sense hung upon the writing under the dry, bony hand, all brown-fingered with chemicals and cigarette-smoke.
Our windows fronting on the dangerous foam,
(he wrote, after long, irresolute snatches), and then—
“Our open casements facing desolate seas
Forlorn—forlorn—”
Here again his face grew peaked and anxious with that sense of loss I had first seen when the Power snatched him. But this time the agony was tenfold keener. As I watched it mounted like mercury in the tube. It lighted his face from within till I thought the visibly scourged soul must leap forth naked between his jaws, unable to endure. A drop of sweat trickled from my forehead down my nose and splashed on the back of my hand.
“Our windows facing on the desolate seas
And pearly foam of magic fairyland—”
“Not yet—not yet,” he muttered, “wait a minute. Please wait a minute. I shall get it then—”
Our magic windows fronting on the sea,
The dangerous foam of desolate seas …
For aye.
Ouh, my God!”
From head to heel he shook—shook from the marrow of his bones outwards—then leaped to his feet with raised arms, and slid the chair screeching across the tiled floor where it struck the drawers behind and fell with a jar. Mechanically, I stooped to recover it.