And not only Christine. He had been sacrificed
too.
But he saw Christine most clearly. She sat in the big arm-chair where
his patients waited for his verdict. She wore the big, floppy, black
hat that she had liked best, and the grey hair hung in the old untidy
wisps about her face. The chair was much too big for her. Her little
feet hardly touched the ground. Her hands in the darned gloves were
folded gravely over the shabby bag. He could see her looking about
dimly and hear the clear, small voice.
"How wonderful of you, Robert! How proud your dear father would have
been!"
He fidgeted with the papers on his table, rearranging, re-sorting,
desperately trying not to suffer. But he would have torn the whole
place down in ruins to have remembered that he had given her one day of
happiness.
Well, there had been that one day on Francey's hill--the picnic. She
had liked that. The wood at the bottom, like a silent, deep, green
pool--and Francey's arms about his shoulders, Francey's mouth on his,
giving him kiss for kiss.
Ghosts everywhere--and no living soul who cared now whether he failed
or won through, whether he suffered or was satisfied. Only Cosgrave
perhaps--poor, unlucky little Cosgrave--always hunting for
happiness--breaking himself against life--going to the dogs for the
sake of a rotten woman.
He fell forward with his face hidden in his arms and lay there shaken
by gusts of fever. They weakened gradually, and he fell asleep.
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