I repeat that I had no sensation except an
absolutely selfish obstinate challenge that I, myself, was
addressing to Something in space. I was saying: "At last, my
chance has come. Now you shall see whether I fly from you or
no. _Now_ you shall do your worst and fail. I'm the hunter
now, not the hunted."
I was conscious of nothing but this quite childish
preoccupation with myself. I was, nevertheless, pleased with
myself. "There, you see," some one near me seemed to say,
"he's not quite so unpractical after all. He's full of
common sense." I looked at the row of sanitars squatting on
the ground, and felt like a schoolmaster with his children.
"You'd better go home then," I said scornfully. The
Feldscher, who was a short stocky man, with a red face and
melancholy eyes (something like a prize-fighter turned
poet), dismissed them. They went off in a line under the
hedge.
The man obviously thought me a tiresome prig.
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