He did not feel well either: the coffee
seemed to have disagreed with him. He had a slight sense of nausea and
was giddy; the road swam before his eyes. Possibly the weather had
something to do with it; though a dull, sunless morning it was hot as he
had never known it. He took out a stud, letting the ends of his collar
fly.
Poor little Mary, he thought inconsequently: he had hurt and frightened
her by his violence. He felt ashamed of himself now. By daylight he
could see her point of view. Mary was so tactful and resourceful that
she might safely be trusted to hush up the affair, to explain away the
equivocal position in which she had been found. After all, both of them
were known to be decent, God-fearing people. And one had only to look at
Mary to see that here was no light woman. Nobody in his senses--not
even Grindle--could think evil of that broad, transparent brow, of
those straight, kind, merry eyes.
No, this morning his hurt was a purely personal one. That it should just
be Purdy who did him this wrong! Purdy, playmate and henchman, ally in
how many a boyish enterprise, in the hardships and adventures of later
life. "Mine own familiar friend, in whom I trusted, which did eat of my
bread!" Never had he turned a deaf ear to Purdy's needs; he had fed him
and clothed him, caring for him as for a well-loved brother. Surely few
things were harder to bear than a blow in the dark from one who stood
thus deeply in your debt, on whose gratitude you would have staked your
head.
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