He could only remind
himself how easily the brain plays tricks upon a man in his state.
* * * * *
After breakfast, Sir James Chide was admitted. But Oliver was now in the
state of obsession, when the whole being, already conscious of a certain
degree of pain, dreads the approach of a much intenser form--hears it
as the footfall of a beast of prey, drawing nearer room by room, and
can think of nothing else but the suffering it foresees, and the
narcotic which those about him deal out to him so grudgingly, rousing in
him, the while, a secret and silent fury. He answered Sir James in
monosyllables, lying, dressed, upon his sofa, the neuralgic portion of
the spine packed and cushioned from any possible friction, his forehead
drawn and frowning.
Sir James shrank from asking him about himself. But it was useless to
talk of politics; Oliver made no response, and was evidently no longer
abreast even of the newspapers.
"Does your man read you the _Times_?" asked Sir James, noticing that it
lay unopened beside him.
Oliver nodded. "There was a dreadful being my mother found a fortnight
ago. I got rid of him.
Pages:
672
673
674
675
676
677
678
679
680
681
682
683
684
685
686
687
688
689
690
691
692
693
694
695
696