If Doris had been lying white and still before him in
her coffin, he could not have felt more completely that sense of the
futility of life, of love, of hope, of everything. As he stood there,
one hand in his pocket, the other tracing with a forefinger an aimless
pattern in the dust on the piano, he perceived with remarkable clarity
that the unhappiness he had suffered, the loneliness he had endured
before he met Doris Cleveland was nothing to what now threatened, to
what now seemed to dog his footsteps with sinister portent.
In the bedroom occupied by their housekeeper stood the only mirror in
the house. Hollister went in there and stood before it, staring at the
presentment of himself in the glass. He turned away with a shiver. He
would not blame her if with clear vision she recoiled from that. He
could expect nothing else. Or would she endure that frightful mien
until she could first pity, then embrace? Hollister threw out his
hands in a swift gesture of uncertainty. He could only wait and see,
and meanwhile twist and turn upon the grid.
Pages:
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315