Lee was merely mapping out a course in the direction of worldly wisdom.
Then, inconsistently leaving that promise of security, he reviewed
every moment, every thrilling breath, with Savina Grove after the
Davencotts had gone: he felt, in exact warm similitude, her body
pressed against his, her parted lips; he heard the little escaping
"Ah!" of her fervor.
He put his glass down abruptly and tramped from wall to wall, his
unbuttoned silk waistcoat swinging about his arms. Lee Randon now
cursed himself, he cursed Savina, but most of all he cursed William
Grove, sleeping in complacent ignorance beside his wife. His
imagination, aroused and then defrauded, became violent, wilfully
obscene, and his profanity emerged from thought to rasping sound. His
forehead, he discovered, was wet, and he dropped once more into the
chair by the laden tray, took a deep drink from a fresh concoction.
"This won't do," he said; "it's crazy." And he resumed the comforting
relief that tomorrow would be different: he'd say good-bye to the
Groves together and, in four hours, he'd be back in Eastlake. The
children, if he took a late train, would be in bed, and Fanny, with her
feet on the stool, engaged with her fancy work.
Then his revolving thoughts took him back to the unanswered mystery of
what, actually, had happened to Savina and him. He lost her for
Cytherea, he lost Cytherea in her; the two, the immobile doll and the
woman torn with vitality, merged to confound him.
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