Then he looked upon the trees and the broad fields, with the thatched huts hidden among crops--looked with strange eyes unable to take up the size and proportion and use of things--stared for a still half-hour.

All that while he felt, though he could not put it into words, that his soul was out of gear with its surroundings--a cog-wheel unconnected with any machinery, just like the idle cog-wheel of a cheap Beheea sugar-crusher laid by in a corner.

The breezes fanned over him, the parrots shrieked at him, the noises of the populated house behind--squabbles, orders, and reproofs--hit on dead ears.
'I am Kim.

I am Kim.

And what is Kim ?' His soul repeated it again and again.
He did not want to cry--had never felt less like crying in his life--but of a sudden easy, stupid tears trickled down his nose, and with an almost audible click he felt the wheels of his being lock up anew on the world without.