Arranmore sat by himself in his study, and his face was white and drawn.
A cigarette which he had lit on entering the room had burnt out between
his fingers. This sudden upheaval of the past, coming upon him with a
certain spasmodic unexpectedness, had shaken his nerves. He had not
believed himself capable of anything of the sort. The unusual
excitement was upon him still. All sorts of memories and fancies long
ago buried, thronged in upon him. So he sat there and suffered,
striving in vain to crush them, whilst faces mocked him from the
shadows, and familiar voices rang strangely in his ears. He scarcely
heard the softly-opened door. The light footsteps and the rustling of
skirts had their place amongst the throng of torturing memories. But
his eyes--surely his eyes could not mock him. He started to his feet.
"Catherine!"
She did not speak at once, but all sorts of things were in her eyes. He
ground his teeth together, and made one effort to remain his old self.
"You have come to offer--your sympathy. How delightful of you. The
bishop got on my nerves, you know, and I really am not answerable for
what I said.
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