Silence. The glass plates under my feet seemed soft, cotton-like. My feet too⁠—soft, cotton-like. Beside me⁠—she with a dead-white smile, angry blue sparks. Through her teeth to me:

“Ah! It is your work! You did your ‘duty’! Well.⁠ ⁠…” She tore her hand from mine; the walkyrie helmet with indignant wings was soon to be seen some distance in front of me. I was alone, torpid, silent. Like everyone else I followed into the dining saloon.

But it was not I, not I! I told nobody, save these white, mute pages.⁠ ⁠… I cried this to her within me, inaudibly, desperately, loudly. She was across the table, directly opposite me and not once did she even touch me with her gaze. Beside her, someone’s ripe, yellow, bald head. I heard (it was I-330 ’s voice):

“ ‘Nobility’ of character! But my dear professor, even a superficial etymological analysis of the word shows that it is a superstition, a remnant of the ancient feudal epoch. We.⁠ ⁠…”