Whatever has been done, you have
deliberately done to yourself. I have no desire to hurt or injure you.
But--what are you thinking about, to imagine that I could continue to
live here--on this money?"
"You contradict yourself twice in the same breath! You just said that
you would let the courts settle that question--"
"As to the Weyland estate's claim, yes. But I do not let the courts
regulate my own sense of honor."
Surface, elbows on the table, buried his face in his hands. Queed slowly
rose, a heart of lead in his breast. He had failed. He had offered all
that he had, and it had been unhesitatingly kicked aside. And, unless
long litigation was started, and unless it ultimately succeeded, Henry
G. Surface would keep his loot.
He glanced about the pleasant little dining-room, symbol of the only
home he had ever known, where, after all, he had done great work, and
been not unhappy. Personally, he was glad to leave it, glad to stand out
from the shadow of the ruin of Henry G. Surface. Nevertheless it was a
real parting, the end of an epoch in his life, and there was sadness in
that.
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