The end of the Clipperton legend (p. 432)
Clipperton stares wordlessly up at the little wrought-iron racquet-heads that serve as spikes at the top of the portcullis and fencing around E.T.A., his expression so blackly haunted that even the hard-boiled attendant told some of the people back at the halfway place later that the spectral trench-coated figure had given him sobriety’s worst fantods, so far
Context
Clipperton at the E.T.A. portcullis on his last morning: the book rarely shows presuicidal despair from outside, and here it's registered on a witness — a recovering addict professionally acquainted with people in terrible ways, who rates this face sobriety's worst fantods so far.