To-day
there was no warm glance with a flicker of a smile in its serene depths
to greet him. Her hands were thrust boyishly into the pockets of her
white coat, and there was an air of austere earnestness about her that
sat quaintly, charmingly upon her youth. He loved the businesslike
simplicity of her dress--the dark, tailored skirt and white silk
shirt--immaculate--expressive of her real ability, an accustomed wealth.
He flaired and hated its expensiveness.)
Money. That lay at the root of everything. If she were ill--what would
it matter? A mere set-back. Her work would wait for her. Money would
wave anxiety from her door. So she was never ill. Even though she loved
him and they had quarrelled she had kept her fresh skin and clear eyes.
Even if she had worried a little, in the end she had slept peacefully.
(He felt his own shabbiness, his exhaustion, his burning hands and eyes,
his dry and bitter mouth like a sort of uncleanliness.)
And there in the midst of his jagged thoughts there flickered a red
anger--a desire to hurt too, to strike, to come to grips at last with her
laughing philosophy of life--to tear it down and batter it into the dust
and misery in which he stood.
They had come to No. 10's bedside. Things had gone badly with No. 10.
She had stood a successful operation, but there had been severe
haemorrhage, and, as Robert had said, there was no constitution to fight
at the turning point. Her face just showed above the creaseless sheet.
Pages:
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219