Fanny
was tired but enthusiastic, and, as she went deftly about, rearranging
her house with an unfailing surety of touch, she hummed fragments of
the evening's songs.
Lee Randon was weary without any qualification; the past day, tomorrow
--but it was already today--offered him no more than a burden, so many
heavy hours, to be supported. The last particle of interest had
silently gone from his existence. His condition was entirely different
from the mental disquiet of a month ago; no philosophical
considerations nor abstract ideas absorbed him now--it was a weariness
not of the mind but of the spirit, a complete sterility of imagination
and incentive, as though an announced and coveted prize had been
arbitrarily withdrawn during the struggle it was to have rewarded.
There was no reason Lee could think of for keeping up his diverse
efforts. He sat laxly in his customary corner of the living room--
Fanny, he felt, had disposed of him there as she had the other
surrounding objects--his legs thrust out before him, too negative to
smoke.
His wife leaned over and kissed him; she was, she had suddenly
discovered, dead with fatigue. The kiss was no more than the contact of
her lips on his. The clear realization of this startled him; now not an
emotion, not even tenderness, responded to her gestures of love. His
indifference had been absolute! There had been periods of short
duration when, exasperated with Fanny, he had lost the consciousness of
his affection for her; but then he had been filled with other stirred
emotions; and now he was coldly empty of feeling.
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