skilful sort of doctor. Into the blankness of his mind was creeping an old memory, long dormant—the memory of his mother tearing herself away in the night, heedless of his fears.
He couldn't trust himself to ask questions, could scarcely formulate any. With the note in his hand and his book-bag still slung across his shoulder, he left the house and turned up the road towards Gritty Kestrell's. He had never spent a night under any roof but Aunt Verona's, and suddenly a sort of awkward, despairing friendliness for the sinister old house clutched at him—despairing, for he seemed to be saying farewell to it, tearing himself away from it as his mother had done nine years ago. Something mysterious was transpiring in Aunt Verona's bedroom, something more ominous than mere sickness, for anything that affected Aunt Verona was somehow more ominous than phenomena affecting other people. He was sure it was the end of a variation. Nothing had flatted this time. A movement had just been hopelessly interrupted. And with its cessation he realized that he had loved it.
His eyes were drowning in tears and he trudged on, oblivious of the ruts and puddles.
