In the moment of waking, on the same bed in Fiddlersburg where, twenty years back, he had lain in the dark by Lettice Poindexter, his wife, Brad Tolliver became aware first of the throbbing head and uneasy stomach which he had predicted from the brandy. Then, even before memory could sort out the facts of the recent past, he was aware of a sudden swooping descent into despair, like lying in a dory, at sea, eyes closed, and the dory sliding side-on, down the trough of a wave.
He had, actually, shut his eyes.
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