“Ow， you’re hurting me， you’re…oh！” She was suddenly silent. Terror had made her forget the pain. Opening her eyes， she had seen his face–no， not his face， a ferocious stranger’s， pale， distorted， twitching with some insane， inexplicable fury. Aghast， “But what is it， John？” she whispered. He did not answer， but only stared into her face with those mad eyes. The hands that held her wrists were trembling. He breathed deeply and irregularly. Faint almost to imperceptibility， but appalling， she suddenly heard the gneding of his teeth. “What is it？” she almost screamed.
And as though awakened by her cry he caught her by the shoulders and shook her. “Whore！” he shouted “Whore！ Impudent strumpet！”
“Oh， don’t， do-on’t，” she protested in a voice made grotesquely tremulous by his shaking.
“Whore！”
“Plea-ease.”
“Damned whore！”
“A gra-amme is be-etter…” she began.
The Savage pushed her away with such force that she staggered and fell. “Go，” he shouted， standing over her menacingly， “get out of my sight or I’ll kill you.” He clenched his fists.
Lenina raised her arm to cover her face. “No， please don’t， John…”
“Hurry up. Quick！”
One arm still raised， and following his every movement with a terrified eye， she scrambled to her feet and still crouching， still covering her head， made a dash for the bathroom.
The noise of that prodigious slap by which her departure was accelerated was like a pistol shot.
“Ow！” Lenina bounded forward.
Safely locked into the bathroom， she had leisure to take stock of her injuries. Standing with her back to the mirror， she twisted her head. Looking over her left shoulder she could see the imprint of an open hand standing out distinct and crimson on the pearly flesh. Gingerly she rubbed the wounded spot.
Outside， in the other room， the Savage was striding up and down， marching， marching to the drums and music of magical words. “The wren goes to’t and the small gilded fly does lecher in my sight.” Maddeningly they rumbled in his ears. “The fitchew nor the soiled horse goes to’t with a more riotous appetite. Down from the waist they are Centaurs， though women all above. But to the girdle do the gods inherit. Beneath is all the fiend’s. There’s hell， there’s darkness， there is the sulphurous pit， burning scalding， stench， consumption； fie， fie， fie， pain， pain！ Give me an ounce of civet， good apothecary， to sweeten my imagination.”
“John！” ventured a small ingratiating voice from the bathroom. “John！”
“O thou weed， who are so lovely fair and smell’st so sweet that the sense aches at thee. Was this most goodly book made to write ‘whore’ upon？ Heaven stops the nose at it…”
But her perfume still hung about him， his jacket was white with the powder that had scented her velvety body. “Impudent strumpet， impudent strumpet， impudent strumpet.” The inexorable rhythm beat itself out. “Impudent…”
“John， do you think I might have my clothes？”
He picked up the bell-bottomed trousers， the blouse， the zippicamiknicks.
“Open！” he ordered， kicking the door.
“No， I won’t.” The voice was frightened and defiant.
“Well， how do you expect me to give them to you？”
“Push them through the ventilator over the door.”
He did what she suggested and returned to his uneasy pacing of the room. “Impudent strumpet， impudent strumpet. The devil Luxury with his fat rump and potato finger…”
“John.”
He would not answer. “Fat rump and potato finger.”
“John.”
“What is it？” he asked gruffly.
“I wonder if you’d mind giving me my Malthusian belt.” Lenina sat， listening to the footsteps in the other room， wondering， as she listened， how long he was likely to go tramping up and down like that； whether she would have to wait until he left the flat； or if it would be safe， after allowing his madness a reasonable time to subside， to open the bathroom door and make a dash for it.
She was interrupted in the midst of these uneasy speculations by the sound of the telephone bell ringing in the other room. Abruptly the tramping ceased. She heard the voice of the Savage parleying with silence.
“Hullo.”
…
“Yes.”
…
“If I do not usurp myself， I am.”
…
“Yes， didn’t you hear me say so？ Mr. Savage speaking.”
…
“What？ Who’s ill？ Of course it interests me.”
…
“But is it serious？ Is she really bad？ I’ll go at once…”
…
“Not in her rooms any more？ Where has she been taken？”
…
“Oh， my God！ What’s the address？”
…
“Three Park Lane–is that it？ Three？ Thanks.”
Lenina heard the click of the replaced receiver， then hurrying steps. A door slammed. There was silence. Was he really gone？
With an infinity of precautions she opened the door a quarter of an inch； peeped through the crack； was encouraged by the view of emptiness； opened a little further， and put her whole head out； finally tiptoed into the room； stood for a few seconds with strongly beating heart， listening， listening； then darted to the front door， opened， slipped through， slammed， ran. It was not till she was in the lift and actually dropping down the well that she began to feel herself secure.
