"We all have our moments of depression," said Sir William.
Once you fall, Septimus repeated to himself, human nature is on you. Holmes and Bradshaw are on you. They scour the desert. They fly screaming into the wilderness. The rack and the thumbscrew are applied. Human nature is remorseless.
"Impulses came upon him sometimes?" Sir William asked, with his pencil on a pink card.
That was his own affair, said Septimus.
"Nobody lives for himself alone," said Sir William, glancing at the photograph of his wife in Court dress.
"And you have a brilliant career before you," said Sir William. There was Mr. Brewer's letter on the table. "An exceptionally brilliant career."
But if he confessed? If he communicated? Would they let him off then, his torturers?
"I—I—" he stammered.
But what was his crime? He could not remember it.
"Yes?" Sir William encouraged him. (But it was growing late.)
Love, trees, there is no crime—what was his message?
