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A DREAM OF ARMAGEDDON
The man with the white face entered the carriage at Rugby. He
moved slowly in spite of the urgency of his porter, and even while
he was still on the platform I noted how ill he seemed. He dropped
into the corner over against me with a sigh, made an incomplete
attempt to arrange his travelling shawl, and became motionless,
with his eyes staring vacantly. Presently he was moved by a sense
of my observation, looked up at me, and put out a spiritless hand
for his newspaper. Then he glanced again in my direction.
I feigned to read. I feared I had unwittingly embarrassed
him, and in a moment I was surprised to find him speaking.
"
I beg your pardon?" said I.
"That book," he repeated, pointing a lean finger, "is about
dreams."
"Obviously," I answered, for it was Fortnum Roscoe's Dream
States, and the title was on the cover.
He hung silent for a space as if he sought words. "Yes," he
said at last, "but they tell you nothing."
I did not catch his meaning for a second.
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