Glazzard
could no longer endure his presence, hated the sound of his voice,
cursed his genial impudence; yet he did not wish for his final
unhappiness--only for a temporary pulling-down, a wholesome
castigation of over-blown pride.
The sound of the rushing wheels affected his thought, kept it on the
one subject, shaped it to a monotony of verbal suggestion. Not a
novel suggestion, by any means; something that his fancy had often
played with; very much, perhaps, as that ingenious criminal spoken
of by Serena amused himself with the picture of a wrecked train long
before he resolved to enjoy the sight in reality.
"Live in the South," Quarrier had urged. "Precisely; in ether words:
Keep out of my way. You're a good, simple-hearted fellow, to be
sure, but it was a pity I had to trust you with that secret. Leave
England for a long time."
And why not? Certainly it was good counsel--if it had come from
any one but Denzil Quarrier. Probably he should act upon it after
all.
CHAPTER XVII
His rooms were in readiness for him, and whilst the attendant
prepared a light supper, he examined some letters which had arrived
that evening. Two of the envelopes contained pressing invitations--
with reference to accounts rendered and re-rendered; he glanced over
the writing and threw them into the fire. The third missive was more
interesting; it came from a lady of high social position at whose
house he had formerly been a frequent guest.
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