Like some at least in England that day, he was conscious of staring down a lane of tragedy that appalled him.

Fragments and sentences came and went in his head.

He groped for words, mentally, as he walked.

Over and over again he repeated his text.

It amazed him by its simplicity; it horrified him by its depth.
Hilda was waiting at the pillar-box as she had said she would be, and little as she could guess it, she irritated him.