Only
temporary, of course. Wouldn't have dreamed of asking, but meeting
such an old friend in such affluent circumstances----
So the eighth birthday had been forgotten. Robert himself could not
have explained why grief should have driven him to his father's
cigars-box. Perhaps it was just a _beau geste_ of defiance, or a
reminder that one day he too would be grown up and free. At any rate,
it was still a very large cigar. Though he puffed at it painstakingly,
blowing the smoke far out of the window so as to escape detection, the
result was not encouraging. The exquisite mauve-grey ash was indeed
less than a quarter of an inch long when his sense of wrong and
injustice deepened to an overwhelming despair. It was not only that
even Christine had failed him--everything was failing him. The shabby
plot of rising ground opposite, which justified Dr. Stonehouse's
contention that he looked out over open country, had become immersed in
a loathsome mist, greenish in hue, in which it heaved and rolled and
undulated like an uneasy reptile. The house likewise heaved, and
Robert had to lean hard against the lintel of the window to prevent
himself from falling out. A strange sensation of uncertainty--of
internal disintegration--obsessed him, and there was a cold moisture
gathering on his face. He felt that at any moment anything might
happen. He didn't care. He wanted to die, anyhow. They had forgotten
him, but when he was dead they would be sorry.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25