And you couldn't do
anything! And you hadn't the afterwards to help you--you weren't looking
forward to it all the time as I was ... it was all over and done with
for you ..." and he lapsed again into mutterings.
Colonel Trench's delight in the sound of his native tongue had now given
place to a great curiosity as to the man who spoke and what he said.
Trench had described himself a long while ago as he stood opposite the
cab-stand in the southwest corner of St. James's Square: "I am an
inquisitive, methodical person," he had said, and he had not described
himself amiss. Here was a life history, it seemed, being unfolded to his
ears, and not the happiest of histories, perhaps, indeed, with
something of tragedy at the heart of it. Trench began to speculate upon
the meaning of that word "afterwards," which came and went among the
words like the _motif_ in a piece of music and very likely was the life
_motif_ of the man who spoke them.
In the prison the heat became stifling, the darkness more oppressive,
but the cries and shouts were dying down; their volume was less great,
their intonation less shrill; stupor and fatigue and exhaustion were
having their effect.
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