Meanwhile Tommy, having been a silent shrouded figure in a darkened room, ministered to by the living and helpless in their hands, moved, came to life and spoke. And that group of people, Molly, Anna, Richard, Marion, who had stood waiting, had sat waiting, had kept vigil through a timeless week, understood how far they had allowed him, in their minds, to slip beyond them into death. When he spoke it was a shock. For that quality in him, the accusing dogged obstinacy that had led him to try and put a bullet in his brain, had been obliterated in their thoughts of him as the victim lying shrouded under white sheets and bandages. The first words he said — and they were all there to hear them — were: ‘You’re there, aren’t you? Well, I can’t see you.’ The way this was said kept them silent. He continued: ‘I am blind, aren’t I?’ And again, the way this was spoken made it impossible to soften the boy’s coming back to life as it was their first impulse to do. After a moment, Molly told him the truth. The four stood around the bed, looking down at the head blind under moulding white tissues, and they were all of them sick with horror and with pity, imagining the lonely and brave struggle that must be going on. And yet Tommy said nothing. He lay still. His hands, the clumsy thick hands he had from his father, were lying by his sides. He lifted them, fumbled them together, and folded them on his chest, in an attitude of endurance. But in his way of making the gesture was something that caused Molly and Anna to exchange a look in which there was more than pity. It was a kind of terror — the look was like a nod. Richard saw the two women communicate this feeling, and literally ground his teeth with rage. It was no place to say what he felt; but outside he said it. They were walking together away from the hospital, Marion a little behind — the shock of what had happened to Tommy had stopped her drinking for the time, but she still seemed to move in a slowed world of her own. Richard spoke fiercely to Molly, turning hot and angry eyes on Anna, so as to include her: ‘That was a pretty bloody thing you did, wasn’t it?’ ‘What?’ said Molly, from inside Anna’s supporting arm. Now they were out of the hospital, she was shaking with sobs. ‘Telling him just like that, he’s blind for life. What a thing to do.’ ‘He knew it,’ said Anna, seeing that Molly was too shaken to talk, and knowing also that this was not what he was accusing them of. ‘He knew it, he knew it,’ Richard hissed at them. ‘He had just come out of being unconscious and you tell him, he’s blind for life.’ Anna said, answering his words but not his feeling: ‘He had to know.’ Molly said to Anna, ignoring Richard, continuing the dialogue with Anna which had been begun in that silent confirming horrified glance over the hospital bed: ‘Anna, I believe he had been conscious for some time. He was waiting for us all to be there — it’s as if he were pleased about it. Isn’t it awful, Anna?’ Now she broke into hysterical weeping, and Anna said to Richard: ‘Don’t take it out on Molly now.’ Richard let out a disgusted inarticulate exclamation, wheeled back to Marion, who was vaguely following the three of them, impatiently took her arm, and went off with her across the vivid green hospital lawn that was systematically dotted with bright flowerbeds. He drove off with Marion, not looking back, leaving them to find a taxi for themselves.