little vague to him, like a series of half-forgotten dreams. Places he had known came to his mind surrounded by a haze; even people, faces, were only pale shadows of things no longer familiar. All he really knew, all he really felt, all he was conscious of was before him, within his reach . . . within his reach!
Hal!
Yes, dear.
I'm so glad you're here.
Yes, dear.
Desdemona, grinning broadly, brought in a tray of coffee and steaming buckwheat-cakes, a passion in which Zimbule was indulging herself now that she had the opportunity. They taste, she commented, like angels' saliva. The cackling Desdemona catered to all the girl's whims. Meals were served at irregular hours and their composition was lacking in rhythm. Zimbule entertained fancies for old-fashioned scallop broil, for spumoni, for curry, for chicken à la Maryland, for apple pie smothered in Welsh rabbit. Sometimes, an entire meal would consist of one of these; sometimes, a strange group would be served in a strange rotation. Whatever Zimbule wanted was all the same to Desdemona and Harold thought this wanton self-indulgence part of the girl's fascination.
Desdemona closed the window and turned on the steam. Presently she came in with a great bouquet of huge white fluffy chrysanthemums.
