It was
brutal, yes, and cowardly, to make Mrs. Dale write instead. If Mrs.
Dale hadn't written telling me he'd received my letter, I couldn't
have found it in my heart to believe that he'd treat me so abominably
cruel."
And, groaning, he spoke to this mental picture that he had evoked for
his renewed torment. "Norah, my sweet one, I can't help myself.
Commands have been laid upon me. I'm no longer free to do what I
please. Norah, don't look away from me. Turn to your boy--let him see
your dear eyes, though the sight of them makes him bleed." And the
thought-picture obeyed him. He saw the entrancing oval of the face
instead of its delicate profile, looked into the profound beauty of
her eyes, felt that her warm red lips were close in front of him, and
that he would go raving mad if they did not come closer still and let
him kiss them.
After such spasms of burning pain he was temporarily exhausted; he
felt completely emptied of emotional power, as if his nerves had
delivered so fierce a discharge that they must cease from working
until time and repose had allowed them to replenish themselves. Then,
so long as this state lasted, his love for the girl was deprived of
all material for passion; it was as though the highest thinking part
of him had been cut off from the sensational mass, and only the top of
his head served to keep alive his memory of the girl.
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