The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

treated the man, asserting mistaken identity.
“You needn’t worry. Here is here and there is there.
Let’s let bygones be bygones.” This way of
forestalling Honda’s thoughts added to the
uneasiness. “But you’ll have to stop that coughing.” He
turned to look busily off beyond the tree trunks.
Breathing more easily as the man moved some
distance away, Honda looked into the grasses
beyond the tree. The throbbing had departed,
however. It had been replaced by uneasiness and,
again, anger and sadness. Self-forgetfulness
withdrew as he pursued it. Though the spot was well
suited for viewing the man and woman on the grass,
there was a false quality about them, as if they knew
they were being watched and were acting parts.
There was none of the joy in seeing, there was neither
the sweet pressure from the recesses of scrutiny nor
drunkenness of clarity itself.
Though they were only a yard or two away, the light
was too dim for him to make out details or the
expressions on the faces. There seemed to be no
screen between him and them, and he could
approach no nearer. He hoped that if he went on
looking the old throb would return. One hand against
the trunk of the tree, one hand on his stick, he looked
down at the couple.