.

.

that he might go and talk to her, watch her, listen to her voice.

Meanwhile he must not think.

If he allowed his brain, for an instant, to rest, it was flooded with the sweeping consciousness of the Presence--always he must be doing something, his football, his companions, and often at the end of it all, calmly, quietly, betrayed--hearing above all the clatter that he might make the gentle accents of that Voice.