For more than an hour, now, worry over him had cankered me.
(Do you imagine I tell you all that happens, here? I nearly would if I
could--it is not that. But the compendium of the eighteen simultaneous
trains of consciousness (the intrications and alternations and separate
chains that run in a man's mind and that you could see in your own if
you tried) would, in a weekend fill up all the books a man might read
in his life. I give you hardly the essence, my friend--but only a
sample of the aggregate--a biopsy of its own sort.)
A knock, then.