He did not want to go up
the public streets with her, his soul all naked and alight as it was.
'Much rather--good-night.' She held out her hand. He grasped it, then
touched the perilous, potent fingers with his lips.
'Good-night,' he said. 'Tomorrow.'
And they parted. He went home full of the strength and the power of
living desire.
But the next day, she did not come, she sent a note that she was kept
indoors by a cold. Here was a torment! But he possessed his soul in
some sort of patience, writing a brief answer, telling her how sorry he
was not to see her.
The day after this, he stayed at home--it seemed so futile to go down
to the office. His father could not live the week out. And he wanted to
be at home, suspended.
Gerald sat on a chair by the window in his father's room. The landscape
outside was black and winter-sodden. His father lay grey and ashen on
the bed, a nurse moved silently in her white dress, neat and elegant,
even beautiful. There was a scent of eau-de-cologne in the room.
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