She saw him, how he was motionless and ageless, like some crouching idol, some image of a deathly religion.

He looked round at her, and his face, very pale and unreal, seemed to gleam with a whiteness almost phosphorescent.
'Don't you feel well ?' she asked, in indefinable repulsion.
'I hadn't thought about it.' 'But don't you know without thinking about it ?' He looked at her, his eyes dark and swift, and he saw her revulsion.

He did not answer her question.
'Don't you know whether you are unwell or not, without thinking about it ?' she persisted.
'Not always,' he said coldly.
'But don't you think that's very wicked ?' 'Wicked ?' 'Yes.

I think it's CRIMINAL to have so little connection with your own body that you don't even know when you are ill.' He looked at her darkly.
'Yes,' he said.
'Why don't you stay in bed when you are seedy?
You look perfectly ghastly.' 'Offensively so ?' he asked ironically.
'Yes, quite offensive.

Quite repelling.' 'Ah!! Well that's unfortunate.' 'And it's raining, and it's a horrible night.