But Comrade Ossipon, nicknamed the Doctor, had got over the shock by that time.
"You don't understand," he began disdainfully, but stopped short, intimidated by the dead blackness of the cavernous eyes in the face turned slowly towards him with a blind stare, as if guided only by the sound.

He gave the discussion up, with a slight shrug of the shoulders.
Stevie, accustomed to move about disregarded, had got up from the kitchen table, carrying off his drawing to bed with him.

He had reached the parlour door in time to receive in full the shock of Karl Yundt's eloquent imagery.

The sheet of paper covered with circles dropped out of his fingers, and he remained staring at the old terrorist, as if rooted suddenly to the spot by his morbid horror and dread of physical pain.
Stevie knew very well that hot iron applied to one's skin hurt very much.
His scared eyes blazed with indignation: it would hurt terribly.

His mouth dropped open.
Michaelis by staring unwinkingly at the fire had regained that sentiment of isolation necessary for the continuity of his thought.