It was
altruism, the irrational force that had put a new face upon the world.
Fifi, he remembered well, had assured him that in altruism he would find
that fiercer happiness which was as much better than content as being
well was better than not being sick. But ... could this be happiness,
this whirling confusion that put him to such straits to keep a calm face
above the tumult of his breast? If this was happiness, then it came to
him for their first meeting wearing a strange face....
"You know the story?"
Queed moved in his chair. "Yes. I--have heard it."
"Of course," said Nicolovius. "It is as well known as Iscariot's. By
God, how they've hounded me!"
Evidently he was recovering fast. There was bitterness, rather than
shame, in his voice. He took his hands from his eyes, adjusted his cap,
stiffened up in his chair. The sallow tints were coming back into his
face; his lips took on color; his eye and hand were steady. Not every
man could have passed through such a cataclysm and emerged so little
marked. He picked up his cigarette from the table; it was still going.
This fact was symbolic: the great shock had come and passed within the
smoking of an inch of cigarette.
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