With a strange perverseness, his mind dwelt
upon the most complete breaking up of his domestic life. It persisted
in shadowing forth scenes in which he and Doris took part, in which it
was made plain how and why they could no longer live together. In
Hollister's mind these scenes always ended by his crying despairingly
"If you can't, why, you can't, I suppose. I don't blame you." And he
would give her the bigger half of his funds and go his way. He would
not blame her for feeling like that. Nevertheless, Hollister had
moments when he felt that he would hate her if she did,--a paradox he
could not understand.
He slept--or at least tried to sleep--that night alone in his house.
He cooked his breakfast and worked on the boom until midday, then
climbed the hill to the camp and ate lunch with his men. He worked up
there till evening and came down in the dusk. He dreaded that lonely
house, those deserted rooms. But he forced himself to abide there. He
had a dim idea of so disciplining his feelings, of attaining a numbed
acquiescence in what he could not help.
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