He was a tall, ruddy-faced man, a big man and handsome.
Hollister had looked at him often enough, reckoning him to be an
Englishman, the man Myra married in London, the man for whom she had
conceived such a passion that she had torn Hollister's heart by the
brutal directness of her written avowal. Hollister had watched him
swinging his ax on the woodpile, going off on those long tramps in the
bottom land. He might be within gunshot of the house at this moment.
Hollister found himself pitying this man. He found himself wondering
if it had always been that way with Myra, if she were the helpless
victim of her own senses. There were women like that. Plenty of them.
Men too. Sufferers from an overstimulated sexuality. He could not
doubt that. He suspected that he was touched with it himself.
What a muddle life was, Hollister reflected sadly, looking down from
the last opening before he plunged into the cedar grove that hid the
log cabin. Here, amid this wild beauty, this grandeur of mountain and
forest, this silent land virginal in its winter garment, human
passion, ancient as the hills themselves, functioned in the old, old
way.
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