It gave him the illusion, at
least, of doing something. Or, more accurately, of getting ready to do
something, while it liberated him from the immediate necessity of doing
it. He'd go to a hotel in that town whose name was printed on his
ticket, and hire a room; lock himself up in it, and then begin to think.
Once he could get the engine of his mind to going, he'd be all right.
There must be some right thing to do. Or if not that, at least something
that was better to do than anything else. And when his mind should have
discovered what that thing was, he'd have, he felt, resolution enough to
go on and do it. Until he should find it, he was like a man
shamed--naked, unable to encounter the most casual glance of any of the
persons in his world who knew his shame. Once he was safe in that hotel
room, the process of thinking could begin. He wouldn't have to hurry
about it. He could take all the time he liked.
For the present, he was getting a queer sort of comfort out of what
would ordinarily be labeled the discomforts of his surroundings: the
fierce dry heat of the car, the smells--that of oranges was perhaps the
strongest of these--the raucous persistence of the train butcher hawking
his wares; and, most of all, in the very density of the crowd.
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