He was in the grip of a
strange apathy. He was tired, physically weary. His body was dull and
heavy, sluggish. So was his mind. He was aware of this, aware that a
nervous reaction of some sort was upon him. He wished that he could
always be like that,--dull, phlegmatic, uncaring. To cease thinking,
to have done with feeling, to be a clod, dead to desires, to high
hopes and heart-numbing fears.
"Come in and have a cup of tea and tell me the latest Vancouver
scandal," Lawanne urged, when they beached the canoe.
Hollister assented. He was as well there as anywhere. If there were an
antidote in human intercourse for what afflicted him, that antidote
lay in Archie Lawanne. There was no false sentiment in Lawanne. He did
not judge altogether by externals. His was an understanding, curiously
penetrating intelligence. Hollister could always be himself with
Lawanne. He sat down on the grass before the cabin and smoked while
Lawanne looked over his letters. The Chinese boy brought tea and
sandwiches and cake on a tray.
"Mrs. Hollister is recovering her sight?" Lawanne asked at length.
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