Yet how doomed it was, in truth, neither I nor a madman could have dreamed.
I thought of the red-blooded Miss West, who had always lived and had no doubts but what she would always live.

I thought of the killing and driving and music-loving Mr.Pike.

Many a haler remnant than he had gone down on a last voyage.

As for Captain West, he did not count.

He was too neutral a being, too far away, a sort of favoured passenger who had nothing to do but serenely and passively exist in some Nirvana of his own creating.
Next I remembered the self-wounded Greek, sewed up by Mr.Pike and lying gibbering between the steel walls of the 'midship-house.