The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance. Then, very awkwardly, he took a stool and placed it at the end of Ann Veronica’s table, and sat down. She was clear there were no other minds like them in all the world. What matters it? My servant, he is wounded—and by a Frenchman, if you wish to make an arrest. He knew that tragedy was as blind as justice, that it struck the child and the grown-up impartially. I ought never to have thought of it. It had been his fevered imagination that had endued the garment with some extraordinary value. ” “Damn!” he remarked at the defaced letter; and, taking a fresh sheet, he recopied what he had written.
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