UNDER a growing weight of uneasiness, combined with a sense of utter discontent with himself, Galt put Lionel down when he had half listened to his accusing prattle¹ for an hour, and sought the shadowy solitude² of his great house.

Yes, Margaret Dealing³ knew, he told himself. That was plain from her change of manner. She knew the truth at last, and was now heaping upon him the silent, womanly contempt which he so eminently⁴ deserved.

He sat at his open window and watched the shadows fall and sullenly⁵ creep across the lawn as the sunbeams receded⁶, and the twilight⁷ of a close, sultry evening came on. He went down to supper when he was called, but he ate little and his loneliness seemed more oppressive there in the open gas-light, under the gaze of the observant and solicitous⁸ attendants. Taking a cigar, he went outside and began to walk up and down on the grass, now grimly fighting against the fate which, like some grim sea-monster, was clutching him with a million penetrating⁹ tentacles¹⁰, and coiling round him as might some insidious¹¹ reptile¹² bent¹³ upon retributive torture. How had he dared to question the predominance of spirit over matter when this piteous appeal for the peace of his soul was

分享到：