He strode slowly up the high street, feeling empty, dried up the unalive husk of a human being. No feeling, no thought, moving, living, following the human behavior pattern by instinct. He realized uninterestedly that this was what people meant by unhappiness, not feeling hurt or pain. Hurt and pain were hurt and pain but unhappiness was something different. People who were hurt were not necessarily unhappy, nor were people in pain necessarily unhappy. Unhappiness was something different, a dull deadness with a streak of yearning in it. That was unhappiness, being able to cry or laugh, and not carrying very much but carrying like hell underneath. Unhappiness, a misused word, translated into reality.