He looked into her eyes for a moment without speaking. A feeling of
loathing such as he had never known before welled up in his heart
against this girl. He hated the sight of her face. He almost imagined
he could see its soft, warm tints changing subtly into the gray,
putty-like complexion of his oldtime enemy. A beastly jowl seemed
suddenly to spread from her smooth round cheek and sag heavy over her
neck; her smile, bewitching to other eyes than his, took on a
mysterious breadth that horrified him. He was seeing visions. He knew
that there was no change such as his mind pictured, and yet he could
not cast out the illusion. He arose abruptly, fearful that she might
see the repugnance in his eyes. He could not sit there an instant
longer, facing this reminder of Bob Grand. Something atavistic in his
nature urged him to strike out with all his strength at the fantastic
face that forced itself upon him.
"I beg your pardon," he said, and his voice sounded queer in his own
ears, "but I must get off some letters to-night. May I take you to the
stairs?"
A few minutes later he was lying flat on his back, fully dressed, on
the bed in his chamber, staring up at the ceiling, his brain a chaos
of anguish, dread, pity--and faith, after all, in Mary Braddock.
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