hopelessly wrong. They at least were never called liars, or slapped in the face, or found themselves helplessly swirling in a sea of metaphysics with a splendid chance of being thoroughly drowned. He forced himself to concentrate. What was it that slash of pale lips had been saying? A sharing of something … Of course, of torture.
“You mean,” he said, “a sharing that is now going on?”
“Perhaps—but especially in the past. Do you believe, Lieutenant, that the dead remain in emotional touch with the living?”
“And that, my poor fish,” he told himself severely, “is what your interminable probing into people’s souls has got you into.”
“I have never thought about it. But I should like to believe that it is true. I should like to believe in anything that offers corroborative proof of immortality.”