He banished it
immediately, and all his desire, his need, his sense of the horror of
the past day, surged back, reanimated him, sent the blood strongly to
its furthest confines. But, none the less, a vague, disturbing memory of
the other lingered at the back of his perceptions; he had a fresh
realization of the necessity for him to make haste, to take at
once--before the hateful anodyne of time had betrayed his vigour--what
life still, and so fully, held.
His desire for Susan increased to an intensity robbing it of a greater
part of the early joy; it had, now, a fretful aspect drawing him into
long and painfully minute rehearsals of his every contact with her, and
of the disgraceful publicity brought upon her by his past. At the usual
hour the hot wine appeared; the glassful was pressed on Amity Merken;
his mother drank hers with the familiar, audible satisfaction. An old
custom, an old compound, brought from Germany many years ago, binding,
in its petty immortality, distant times, places, beings. He saw that his
mother was noticeably less able than she had been the week before; her
hands fumbled at her knitting, shook holding the glass. Her lined face
quivered as she said good night. He bent and kissed a hot, dry brow,
conscious of the blanched skull under her fading colour, her ebbing
warmth.
Pages:
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277