Every morning Gerald went into the room, hoping to find his father
passed away at last. Yet always he saw the same transparent face, the
same dread dark hair on the waxen forehead, and the awful, inchoate
dark eyes, which seemed to be decomposing into formless darkness,
having only a tiny grain of vision within them.
And always, as the dark, inchoate eyes turned to him, there passed
through Gerald's bowels a burning stroke of revolt, that seemed to
resound through his whole being, threatening to break his mind with its
clangour, and making him mad.
Every morning, the son stood there, erect and taut with life, gleaming
in his blondness. The gleaming blondness of his strange, imminent being
put the father into a fever of fretful irritation. He could not bear to
meet the uncanny, downward look of Gerald's blue eyes. But it was only
for a moment. Each on the brink of departure, the father and son looked
at each other, then parted.
For a long time Gerald preserved a perfect sang froid, he remained
quite collected.
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