go. I cannot be intimate—’ stressing the word with a deep look ‘— with one I feel to be a stranger. ” The redness in his face betrayed him. A brief feeling of empathy with Pottiswick passed through him. I have slept with it under my pillow. Supposing he too wanted love and his arms were as empty as hers? Some living thing that depended upon her. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. For a time he would be the grim Protestant Flagellant, pursuing the idea of self-castigation.
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