not now.

I shall go to him...

on the next day after It, when It will be over and everything will begin afresh...." And suddenly he realised what he was thinking.
"After It," he shouted, jumping up from the seat, "but is It really going to happen?
Is it possible it really will happen ?" He left the seat, and went off almost at a run; he meant to turn back, homewards, but the thought of going home suddenly filled him with intense loathing; in that hole, in that awful little cupboard of his, all _this_ had for a month past been growing up in him; and he walked on at random.
His nervous shudder had passed into a fever that made him feel shivering; in spite of the heat he felt cold.

With a kind of effort he began almost unconsciously, from some inner craving, to stare at all the objects before him, as though looking for something to distract his attention; but he did not succeed, and kept dropping every moment into brooding.

When with a start he lifted his head again and looked round, he forgot at once what he had just been thinking about and even where he was going.