No, it was pure self-hypnosis. Weak man
demanded offsets for his earthly woes, and he had concocted them in a
world of his own imagining. That was the history of man's religions; the
concoction of other-worldly offsets for worldly woes. In their heart of
hearts, all knew that they were concoctions, and the haruspices laughed
when they met each other.
Supper was early at Mrs. Paynter's, as though to atone for the tardiness
of yesterday. The boarders dispatched it not without recurring
cheerfulness, broken now and again by fits of decorous silence. You
could see that by to-morrow, or it might be next day, the house would be
back in its normal swing again.
Mr. Queed withdrew to his little chamber. He trod the steps softly for
once, and perhaps this was why, as he passed Mrs. Paynter's room, his
usually engrossed ear caught the sound of weeping, quiet but
unrestrained, ceaseless, racking weeping, running on evermore, the
weeping of Rachel for her children, who would not be comforted.
The little Doctor shut the door of the Scriptorium and lit the gas. So
far, his custom; but here his whim and his wont parted.
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