He could not look out over the brow of that cliff without
thinking of the woman in the valley below. He could not think of her
without the floodgates of his recollection loosing their torrents. He
had slept with her head pillowed in the crook of his arm. He had been
wakened by the warm pressure of her lips on his. All the tender
intimacies of their life together had lurked in his subconsciousness,
to rise and torture him now.
And it was torture. He would tramp far along those slopes and when he
looked too long at some distant peak he would think of Myra. He would
sit beside his fireplace with one of Doris Cleveland's books in his
hand and the print would grow blurred and meaningless. In the glow of
the coals Myra's face would take form and mock him with a seductive
smile. Out of the gallery of his mind pictures would come trooping,
and in each the chief figure was that fair-haired woman who had been
his wife. At night while he slept, he was hounded by dreams in which
the conscious repression of his waking hours went by the board and he
was delivered over to the fantastic deviltries of the subconscious.
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