men; it tampered ferociously with the beauty, the
pride, the innocent and gracious pretensions, of
youth, of women.

Gordon Makimmon was conscious of an overwhelming
desire to flee from the white grimace on
the bed that had been Lettice's and his. He drew
back, in a momentary, abject, shameful cowardice;
then he forced himself to return... The fleering
lips quivered, there was a slight stir under the counterpane.
A little sound gathered, shaped into words
barely audible in the stillness of the room broken
only by Gordon's breathing:

"It's... too much. Not any more... hurting.
Oh! I can't--"

He found a chair, and sat down by her side. The
palms of his hands were wet, and he wiped them
upon his knees. His fear of the supine figure grew,
destroying the arrogance of his manhood, his sentient
reason. He was afraid of what it intimated,
threatened, for himself, and of its unsupportable
mockery. He felt as an animal might feel cornered
by a hugely grim and playful cruelty.

The westering sun fell through a window on the
disordered huddle of Lettice's hastily discarded
clothes streaming from a chair to the floor -- her
stockings, her chemise threaded with a narrow blue
ribband. His thoughts turned to the little white
garments she had fashioned in vain.

[[270]]

p269 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p270w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p271

v?