"
"But you have your Crimean nights," said Durrance, cheerfully.
Feversham shook his head. "There have been none since Harry went away. I
had no heart for them," he said slowly. For a second the mask was lifted
and his stern features softened. He had suffered much during these five
lonely years of his old age, though not one of his acquaintances up to
this moment had ever detected a look upon his face or heard a sentence
from his lips which could lead them so to think. He had shown a
stubborn front to the world; he had made it a matter of pride that no
one should be able to point a finger at him and say, "There's a man
struck down." But on this one occasion and in these few words he
revealed to Durrance the depth of his grief. Durrance understood how
unendurable the chatter of his friends about the old days of war in the
snowy trenches would have been. An anecdote recalling some particular
act of courage would hurt as keenly as a story of cowardice. The whole
history of his lonely life at Broad Place was laid bare in that simple
statement that there had been no Crimean nights for he had no heart for
them.
The wheels of the carriage rattled on the gravel.
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