"Clare's dead," Gordon replied involuntarily.
So far away, he thought, and alone... He must
go at once and fetch her home. He rose.

"Clare said," the doctor continued, "if your sister's
eldest was to come in to give her the sateen
waist." An extended silence fell upon the men; the
whippoorwills sobbed and sobbed; the stream gurgled
past its banks. Then:

"By God!" Gordon said passionately, "I don't
know but I'm not glad Clare's gone -- Simmons has
got our house, I'm not driving stage... Clare
would have sorrowed herself out of living. Life's
no jig tune."

The doctor left. Gordon continued to sit on the
porch; at intervals he mechanically rolled and lit
cigarettes, which glowed for a moment and went out,
unsmoked. The feeling of depression that had
cloaked him during the few days past changed imperceptibly
to one of callous indifference toward existence
in general. The seeds of revolt, of instability,
which Clare and a measure of worldly
position, of pressure, had held in abeyance, germinated
in his disorganized mind, his bitter sense of
injustice and injury. He hardened, grew defiant
...the strain of lawlessness brought so many years
before from warring Scotch highlands rose bright
and troublesome in him.

[[87]]

p086 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p087w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p088

v?