He had
appeared before her late one afternoon and she had for a moment
been afraid to look at him because she was struck to the depths of
her being by a sense of seeing before her a body which had broken
the link holding it to life and walked the earth, the crowded
streets, the ordinary rooms where people gathered, a dead thing.
Even while it moved it gazed out of dead eyes. And the years had
passed and though they had been friends he had never spoken until
now.
"Such a thing must be buried in a tomb covered with a heavy stone
and with a seal set upon it. I am unsealing a tomb," he said. Then
after a silence he added, "I have, of cause, a reason." She bent
her head because she had known this must be the case.
"There is a thing I wish you to understand. Every woman could
not."
"I shall understand."
"Because I know you will I need not enter into exact detail. You
will not find what I say abnormal."
There had been several pauses during his relation. Once or twice
he had stopped in the middle of a sentence as if for calmer breath
or to draw himself back from a past which had suddenly become again
a present of torment too great to face with modern steadiness. He
took breath so to speak in this manner again.
"The years pass, the agony of being young passes. One slowly
becomes another man," he resumed. "I am another man. I could not
be called a creature of sentiment.
Pages:
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360