The idea made him vaguely uneasy, because, that "something" might be
so conclusive, that--But he could not face such a possibility.
He wanted to dig at the text, so that he might refute Nathan;
but somehow that night he was too dull to refute anybody, and by-and-by
he pushed the black-lettered page aside, and, crouching over the fire,
held out his hands to the blaze. He thought, vaguely, of the big
fireplace in the old study, and suddenly, in the chilly numbness
of his mind, he saw it--with such distinctness that he was startled.
Then, a moment later, it changed into the south chamber that
had been his mother's bedroom--he could even detect the faint
scent of rose-geranium that always hung about her; he noticed
that the green shutters on the west windows were bowed, and from
between them a line of sunshine fell across the matting on the floor
and touched the four-poster that had a chintz spread and valance.
How well he knew the faded roses and the cockatoos on that old chintz!
Over there by the window he had caught her crying that time he had
hurt her feelings, "just for his own pleasure"; the old stab of this
thought pierced through the feverish mists and touched the quick.
He struggled numbly with the visualization of fever, brushing his
hot hand across his eyes and trying to see which was real--
the geranium-sweet south chamber or the chilly house on Lonely Lake Road.
Athalia had given him pain in that same way--just for her own pleasure.
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