Septimus looked. Boys on bicycles sprang off. Traffic accumulated.
And there the motor car stood, with drawn blinds, and upon them a curious pattern
like a tree, Septimus thought, and this gradual drawing together of
everything to one centre before his eyes, as if some horror had come
almost to the surface and was about to burst into flames, terrified
him. The world wavered and quivered and threatened to burst into
flames. It is I who am blocking the way,
he thought. Was he not being looked at and pointed at; was he not
weighted there, rooted to the pavement, for a purpose? But for what
purpose?