There could be
no doubt of the cause of Mrs. Grove's blanched staring: just as there
was no evasion of the danger created by no more than his scant
recognition. Passion discovered was a thousand diameters increased;
mutually admitted, it swept aside all opposition. Lee Randon, however,
had no intention of involving himself there while, ironically, he was
engaged in securing for Claire Morris her husband; he didn't propose to
compromise his ease of mind with William Grove's wife. There was, as
well, the chance that she was a little unbalanced; progressing, he
might involve himself in a regrettable, a tragic, fix. He would not
progress, that was all there was to that! Lee felt better, freer
already, at this resolution; he wasn't, he protested inwardly, a
seducer of women; the end itself, the consummation, of seduction, was
without tyrannical power over him. Lee wasn't materially, patiently,
sensual in that uncomplicated manner. No, his restlessness was more
mysterious, situated deeper, than that; it wasn't so readily satisfied,
drugged, dismissed. The fact struck him that it had little or no animal
urgency; and in this, it might be, he was less lucky than unlucky.
Mrs. Davencott rose and resumed her wrap, retained with her on the back
of the chair. Lee met the pleasant decisiveness of her capable hand,
the doctor grasped his fingers with a robust witticism; and he was
replying to the Davencotts' geniality when he had a glimpse of Mrs.
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