We are made, I suppose, both to suffer and to enjoy. As you say,
it 's a mixture. Just now and here, it seems a peculiarly strange one.
But we must take things in turn."
His words had a singular aptness, for he had hardly uttered them when
Roderick came out from the house, evidently in his darkest mood. He
stood for a moment gazing hard at the view.
"It 's a very beautiful night, my son," said his mother, going to him
timidly, and touching his arm.
He passed his hand through his hair and let it stay there, clasping
his thick locks. "Beautiful?" he cried; "of course it 's beautiful!
Everything is beautiful; everything is insolent, defiant, atrocious with
beauty. Nothing is ugly but me--me and my poor dead brain!"
"Oh, my dearest son," pleaded poor Mrs. Hudson, "don't you feel any
better?"
Roderick made no immediate answer; but at last he spoke in a different
voice. "I came expressly to tell you that you need n't trouble
yourselves any longer to wait for something to turn up. Nothing will
turn up! It 's all over! I said when I came here I would give it a
chance. I have given it a chance.
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