His love for
Susan faded, if not from his heart, from his eyes and lips. She was as
dear to him as ever, but now with a devitalized, undemanding affection
in which there was something of a child's fretful dependence. He rode
beside her not looking at her, contented that she should be there, but
with the thought of marriage buried out of sight under the weight of
his weariness. It did not figure at all in his mind, which, when
roused from apathy, reached forward into the future to gloat upon the
dream of sleep. She was grateful for his silence, and they rode side
by side, detached from one another, moving in separated worlds of
sensation.
This evening he came across to where she sat, dragging a blanket in an
indolent hand. He dropped it beside her and threw himself upon it with
a sigh. He was too empty of thought to speak, and lay outstretched,
looking at the plain where dusk gathered in shadowless softness. In
contrast with his, her state was one of inner tension, strained to the
breaking point. Torturings of conscience, fears of herself, the
unaccustomed bitterness of condemnation, melted her, and she was ripe
for confession.
Pages:
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384