Paul Wendell, too, was wondering what went wrong.
Slowly, over a period of immeasurable time, memory seeped back into him.
Bits of memory, here and there, crept in from nowhere, sometimes to be
lost again, sometimes to remain. Once he found himself mentally humming
an odd, rather funeral tune:
_Now, though you'd have said that the head was dead,
For its owner dead was he,
It stood on its neck with a smile well-bred,
And bowed three times to me.
It was none of your impudent, off-hand nods...._
Wendell stopped and wondered what the devil seemed so important about
the song.
Slowly, slowly, memory returned.
When he suddenly realized, with crashing finality, where he was and what
had happened to him, Paul Wendell went violently insane. Or he would
have, if he could have become violent.