sorry that he had obeyed the fleeting impulse to enter.
But even the anger expired before Merlier's impassivity --
he must as well curse a figure carved from
granite, cast in lead. He grew, in turn, uneasy at
the other's supernatural detachment; it chilled his
blood like the grip of an unexpected, icy hand, like
the imminence of inevitable death. The priest resembled
a dead man, a dead man who had remained
quick in the mere physical operations of the body,
while all the machinery of his thoughts, his feelings,
lay motionless and cold within.

Gordon found relief in a customary cigarette when
the uncomfortable repast was finished. The priest
removed the dishes, and reappeared with bed linen,
with which he proceeded to convert the bare couch
into a provision for sleeping. Then he returned
the lamp to the center of the table, opened the book
and seated with his back squarely toward the room,
addressed himself to the pages.

Gordon Makimmon's head throbbed, suddenly
paining him -- it was as though sharp, malicious fingers
were compressing the spine at the base of his
brain. That, and the profound weariness which
swept over him, were disconcerting; he was so seldom
ill, so rarely tired, that those unwelcome symptoms
bore an aggravated menace; it was the slight,
premonitory rusting, the corrosion of time, upon the
iron of his manhood.

[[108]]

p107 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p108w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p109

v?