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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
292
The
man
I
dare
not
look
at:
I
sat
beside
him
and
merely
imagined.
At
----,
I
got
a
decent
seat
and
arrived
at
T----
jaded,
but
still
alive,
with
no
one
to
meet
me.
Decent
rooms
on
the
sea-front.
Next
morning
J----
went
away
for
the
week
end
and
I
could
not
possibly
explain
how
ill
I
was:
she
might
have
stayed
at
home.
To
preserve
my
sanity,
Saturday
afternoon,
took
a
desperate
remedy
by
hiring
a
motor-car
and
travelling
to
Torquay
and
back
via
Babbacombe....
On
the
Sunday,
feeling
suddenly
ill,
I
sent
for
the
local
medico
whom
I
received
in
the
drab
little
room
by
lamplight
after
dinner.
"I've
a
tingling
in
my
right
hand,"
I
said,
"that
drives
me
nearly
silly."
"And
on
the
soles
of
your
feet?"
he
asked
at
once.
I
assented,
and
he
ran
thro'
at
once
all
the
symptoms
in
series.
"I
see
you
know
what
my
trouble
is,"
I
said
shyly.
And
we
chatted
a
little
about
the
War,
about
disease,
and
I
told
him
of
the
recent
memoir
on
the
histology
of
the
disease
----
in
the
Trans.
Roy.
Soc,
Edin.
which
interested
him.
Then
he
went
away
again--very
amiable,
very
polite
--an
obvious
non
possumus....
On
Monday
at
4
went
up
to
----
to
tea
as
previously
arranged,
but
found
the
house
shut
up
so
returned
to
my
rooms
in
a
rage.
After
tea,
having
read
the
newspapers
inside
out,
sat
by
the
open
window
looking
out
on
to
the
Marine
Parade.
It
was
dusk,
a
fine
rain
was
falling,
and
the
parade
and
sea-front
were
deserted
save
for
an
occasional
figure
hurrying
past
with
mackintosh
and
umbrella.
Suddenly
as
I
sat
looking
out
on
this
doleful
scene,
a
dirge
from
nowhere
in
particular
sounded
on
my
ears
which
I
soon
recognised
as
"Robin
Adair,"
sung
very
lento
and
very
maestoso
by
a
woman,
with
a
flute
obligato
played
by
some
second
person.
The
tide
was
right
up,
and
the
little
waves
murmured
listlessly
at
long
intervals:
never
before
I
think
have
I
been
plunged
into
such
an
abyss
of
acute
misery.
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