He remembered a sentence out of a strange novel of Dostoieffsky's that
he had once read, "The Brothers Karamazoff": "It's a feature of the
Karamazoffs ... that thirst for life regardless of everything--" and the
Karamazoffs were of a sensual, debased stock--rotten at the base of them
with an old drunken buffoon of a father--yes, that was like the Westcotts.
All his life, struggle ... and young Stephen--all _his_ life, struggle...
and yet, even in the depths of degradation, if the fight were to go that
way there would still be that lust for life.
So many times he had been almost under. First Stephen Brant had saved him,
then at Brockett's Norah Monogue, then in Bucket Lane his illness, then in
Chelsea his marriage, lately young Stephen... always, always something had
been there to keep him on his feet. But if everything were taken from him,
if he were absolutely, nakedly alone--what then? Ah, what then!
He buried his head in his hands. "God, you don't know what young Stephen is
to me--or, yes, of course you do know, God--and because you do know, you
will not take him from me."
The little tearing pain at his heart held him--every now and again it
turned like some grinding key.
Mitchell entered with another doctor. Peter went over to the window, and
whilst they made their examination, stared through the glass at the
fretwork of trees, the golden haze of London beyond, two stars that now,
when the storm had spent itself, showed in a dark dim sky.
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