From outside came the thin howling of a dog, and
it, too, seemed to hold a remote and desperate interrogation.
* * * * *
He slept badly, in short broken stretches, with the Morrises constantly
in his mind; and what, in the slightest dislocation of reality, was
dream and what waking he couldn't determine; at times his vision seemed
to hold both--a door, the irrevocable door, swung open, the end
impended, but he was unable to see the faces of the man and woman; when
he looked anxiously a blind spot intervened. The morning found him
unrefreshed, impatient; and he was glad that his early breakfast was
solitary; Lee didn't want then to see either Claire or Fanny, he was in
no mood to discuss Peyton's seizure. That, it seemed to Lee Randon, was
exactly what had happened to the younger man--Peyton had gone within
the region of a contagious fever that had run through all his blood.
Yet, at dinner, to his surprise, Fanny said very little about what had
entirely occupied their thoughts; she was quiet, reserved; her attitude
was marked by a careful dignity. Her gaze, even more than commonly,
rested on her husband. "I had a wretched night, too," she told him; "my
head is like a kite. I've thought and thought until my brain aches, it
is so full. But there are some things I decided; and if you don't agree
with them I'm sorry; because, Lee, I am right, I am indeed.
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