hardly more alive than the photographed clay of
Mrs. Hollidew in the sitting room. He would wake
slowly, confused; the dog would lick his inert hand,
and they would go together in search of food to the
kitchen.

On the occasions when he was forced to go to the
post-office, the store, he went hurriedly, secretively,
in a coat as green, as aged, as Pompey's own.

He was anxious to finish his labor, to be released
from its responsibility, its weight. It appeared tremendously
difficult to consummate; it had developed
far beyond his expectation, his original conception.
The thought pursued him that some needy individual
would be overlooked, his claim neglected. No one
must be defrauded; all, all, must have their own,
must have their chance. He, Gordon Makimmon,
was seeing that they had, with Lettice's money...
because... because...

The leaves had been swept from the trees; the
mountains were gaunt, rocky, against swift, low
clouds. There was no sunlight except for a brief,
sullen red fire in the west at the end of day. At
night the winds blew bleakly down Greenstream valley.
Shutters were locked, shades drawn, in the village;
night obliterated it absolutely. No one
passed, after dark, on the road above.

He seemed to be toiling alone at a hopeless, interminable
task isolated in the midst of a vast, un-

[[333]]

p332 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p333w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p334

v?