I-VIII

Outside, the village, the Greenstream Valley,
was folded in still, velvety dark. He
crossed the street, and sat on one of the
iron benches placed under the trees on the Courthouse
lawn. He could see a dull, reddish light
shining through the dusty window of the _Bugle_ office.
Shining like that, through his egotistical
pride, the facts of his failure and impotence tormented
him. It hurt him the more that he had been,
simply, diddled, no better than a child in Simmons'
astute, practised hands. The latter's rascality was
patent, but Simmons could not have been successful
unabetted by his own blind negligence. The catastrophe
that had overtaken him rankled in his most
vulnerable spot -- his self-esteem.

He suffered inarticulately, an indistinguishable
shape in the soft, summer gloom; about his feet, in
the lush grass, the greenish-gold sparks of the fireflies
quivered; above the deep rift of the valley the
stars were like polished silver coins.

Vaguely, and then more strongly, out of a chaos
of vain, sick regrets, his combativeness, his deep-

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v?