Then, with incredible quickness,
came peace.
Once, when two strange men had come together, and had gone into the
adjoining room, he caught disconnected fragments of conversation.
"Hypersensitive-impossible--not much longer--interesting case." He
wondered, as he began to sway in the darkness again, what
"hypersensitive" meant. Surely, he used to know.
Still, it did not matter--nothing mattered now. In the brief intervals
of consciousness, he began to wonder what he had been doing just before
this happened, whatever it was. It took him days to piece out the
disconnected memories past the whirling room, the woman in white and the
creeping shadows, to the red touring car and Isabel.
His heart throbbed painfully, held though it was by some iron hand, icy
cold, in a pitiless clutch. Weakly, he summoned the blue and white woman
who sat in a low chair across his room. She came quickly, and put her
ear very close to his lips that she might hear what he said.
"Was--she--hurt?"
"No," said the blue and white woman, very kindly. "Only slightly
bruised."
The next day he summoned her again.
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