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Ann Veronica said nothing. “So Brendon and I,” he said, “have been troubled with the same fears. Any man might have endeavoured to protect himself in this fashion, a man with no one to care, with an unnameable terror at the thought (as if it mattered!) of being buried in alien earth, far from the familiar places he loved. I see that I am a beast—I beg your pardon, bête—and an imbecile, and an idiot. Shotbolt, who had in some degree recovered from the effects of his previous mortification, was thrown into an ecstacy of delight, and could not sufficiently exult over the prisoner.
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