A crisis had been reached, and she was almost glad it had been reached. She became aware of the modelling of his ear, of the muscles of his neck and the textures of the hair that came off his brow, the soft minute curve of eyelid that she could just see beyond his brow; she perceived all these familiar objects as though they were acutely beautiful things. At length he proceeded toward McClintock's bungalow, drawn by the lights and the sound of music. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. ‘But you are idiot. And I want you for myself—for my wife. ” She looked around the apartment again. "The part was crooked," she explained. On coming to himself, he found he had been wrapped in a blanket and put to bed with a couple of hot bricks to his feet. His bodily suffering, however, was nothing compared with his mental anguish.
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