He felt this
attitude of doubt and suspicion, these thoughts that he was now thinking
about the man whose roof he shared, as an unclean spot upon his chaste
passion for truth. He could not feel honest again until he had wiped it
off.... And, after all, what did he owe to Nicolovius?
"But I must not leave you under the impression," said Nicolovius, almost
testily for him, "that my ideas are unique and extraordinary. They are
shared, in fact, by Southern historians of repute and--"
Queed turned on him. "But you never read Southern historians."
Nicolovius had a smile for that, though his expression seemed subtly to
shift. "I must make confession to you. Three days ago, I broke the
habits of quarter of a century. At the second-hand shop on Centre Street
I bought, actually, a little volume of history. It is surprising how
these Southern manifestations have interested me."
Queed was an undesirable person for any man to live with who had a
secret to keep. His mind was relentlessly constructive; it would build
you up the whole dinosaur from the single left great digitus. For
apparently no reason at all, there had popped into his head a chance
remark of Major Brooke's a year ago, which he had never thought of from
that day to this: "I can't get over thinking that I've seen that man
before a long time ago, when he looked entirely different, and yet
somehow the same too.
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