Nothing that young
Galleon could say mattered from the critical standpoint--nevertheless he
seemed to represent, in this case, a universal opinion; even in his
rejection of Peter one could see, behind him, a world of readers
withdrawing their approval.
"Peter Westcott's no good.... Peter Westcott's no good.... Peter Westcott's
no good...."
In any case that was quite enough to account for the oppression that he was
feeling--feeling with increasing force as the minutes passed. He undressed
and dressed again slowly, wondering vaguely, loosely, in the back of his
mind, why it was that Clare had not come in. Perhaps she had come in and
the maid had not heard her. He took the ruby out of his pocket, opened the
little case, looked at the jewel shining there under the electric light,
thought of Clare with a sudden rush of passionate affection. "Dear thing,
won't she look lovely in it? Her neck's so white and she's never worn much
jewellery--she'll be pleased. She'll know why I'm giving it to her now--a
kind of seal on what we agreed to the other night. A new life ... new
altogether...."
He was conscious as he took his shirt off that his windows were open and a
strange scent of burning leaves was with him in the room. It was quite
strong, pungent--very pleasant, that sense of burning. Burning leaves in
the orchard.... But it was rather cold.
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