While he was thus employed, his nerves underwent a severe shock. Behind them stalked Blueskin, enveloped in a rough great-coat, called—appropriately enough in this instance,—a wrap-rascal. Shari was snoring soundly. He had found her in a communicative mood, and he used the accumulated skill of years in turning that to account. They WERE weird. “You know,” he went on, “this doesn’t seem to me to end anything. But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind.
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