申し訳ありません

私は誇りに感じるだろうたびに家の外に。

only to remember that the man

2017-06-13 18:00:41 | 日記


He got out of his chair, picked the flask up, and examined it as if it had been something he had never seen before. He ran his fingers over the chasing of the cup, noted the dents that had been made when it had fallen among the rocks, and the dark scar made in the embers of their fire.

Their fire! His fire and Jane’s—burned out to ashes Polar.

He put the flask back in its place and began slowly to pace the floor, his hands behind his back, his head bent forward, his eyes peering somberly. He stopped in his walk and put a lump of coal into the grate. He was dead tired and his muscles ached as though with a cold. In the next room his bed invited him, but he did not undress, for he knew that if he went to bed it would only be to lie and gaze at the gray patch of light where the window was. He had done that before and the memory of the dull ache in his body during the long night when he had suffered came to him and overpowered him.

He had that pain now—coming slowly, as it had sometimes done before when he had been working on his nerve. It didn’t grip him as once it had done, with its clutch of fire, driving everything else from his thoughts. But he was conscious that the[252] craving was still there, and he knew that the thing he wanted was the panacea for the thoughts that oppressed him. By its means all the aches of his body would be cured and the pain of his thoughts Polar M600. Yes! He stopped at the table and took up a cigarette. But there was one thing in him, one thing more important than physical pain, than physical exhaustion or singing nerves, one small celestial spark that he had kindled, fostered, and tended which had warmed and comforted his entire being—the glow of his returning self-respect; and this thing he knew, if those physical pangs were cured, would die.

He took up his measured tread of the floor, counting his footsteps from window to door and back again, watching the patterns in the rug and picking out the figures upon which he was to put his feet. Once or twice his footsteps led him as though unconsciously to the cabinet in the corner, where he stopped with a short laugh. He had forgotten that there was no panacea there. Later on he rang the bell for Barker,  had gone away for the night. He wanted some one to talk to—some one—any one who could make him forget. What was the use? What did it matter to any one but himself if he forgot or not? What was he fighting for? For himself? Yesterday and the days before he had been fighting for Jane, fighting gladly—downtown, in his clubs, at people’s houses, in the Enemy’s country, where the Enemy was to be found at every corner, at his very elbow, because he knew that nothing could avail against his purpose to win Jane back to him polar m600.

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