"Six years ago" he said with the same drowsy thoughtfulness. "Well, Rose,
I shall always be--most grateful--for those six years."
She started to speak but he checked her.
"I think I would be willing to make a substantial endowment to any
Protestant Church that still really believed in hell," he said, "because
that was very like hell--six years ago."
Intensity began to come into his voice like a color of darkness, though he
still spoke slowly.
"You can stand nearly everything in life but being tired of yourself. And
six years ago I was tired--tired to death."
Her hand reached over and touched him medicinally.
"I suppose I had no right" he began again and then stopped. "No, I think
the strong man tires less easily but more wholly than the weak one when he
does tire. And I was strong enough.
"I'd played a big game, you know. When my father died we hadn't much left
but position--and that was going. I don't blame my father--he wasn't a
business man--he should have been a literary critic--that little book of
essays of his still sells, you know; not much but there's a demand for a
dozen copies every year and that's a good deal for an American who's been
dead for thirty.
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