She reached out her hand, plucking at his coatsleeve. Abruptly she leaned toward him, burying her face against the rough tweed of his suit; she sobbed a little, while he patted her gently with his great, delicately fingered hand. "I'm sorry, Honey," he rumbled. "I'm sorry."
The girl drew herself erect and leaned back against the wall, shaking her head to drive the tears from her eyes. She gave the Doctor a wan little smile.
"Well?" she asked.
"I'll return your compliment of the other night," said Horker briskly. "I'll ask a few questions—purely professional, of course."
"Fire away, Dr. Carl."
"Good. Now, when our friend has one of these—uh—attacks, is he rational? Do his utterances seem to follow a logical thought sequence?"
"I—think so."
"In what way does he differ from his normal self?"
"Oh, every way," she said with a tremor. "Nick's kind and gentle and sensitive and—and naive, and this—other—is cruel, harsh, gross, crafty, and horrible. You can't imagine a greater difference."
"Um. Is the difference recognizable instantly? Could you ever be in doubt as to which phase you were encountering?"