He hesitated. Then a wave of weariness broke against him.
It was too late--everything was too late. For years now he had dreamed
the world away, basing his decisions upon emotions unstable as water.
The little girl in the white dress dominated him, as she approached
beauty in the hard symmetry of her desire. The fire blazing in her dark
and injured heart seemed to glow around her like a flame. With some
profound and uncharted pride she had made herself remote and so achieved
her purpose.
"I didn't--mean to seem so callous, Dot."
"It don't matter."
The fire rolled over Anthony. Something wrenched at his bowels, and he
stood there helpless and beaten.
"Come with me, Dot--little loving Dot. Oh, come with me. I couldn't
leave you now--"
With a sob she wound her arms around him and let him support her weight
while the moon, at its perennial labor of covering the bad complexion of
the world, showered its illicit honey over the drowsy street.
THE CATASTROPHE
Early September in Camp Boone, Mississippi. The darkness, alive with
insects, beat in upon the mosquito-netting, beneath the shelter of which
Anthony was trying to write a letter.
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