"
But now with every stumbling step of that bony horse Peter was being shaken
into a more active consciousness, consciousness not of the past, very
slightly of the present, but rather of an eager, excited anticipation of
events shortly to befall him, of the acute sense--the first that had, as
yet, come to him--that, very shortly, he was to plunge himself into an
absolute abandonment of all the restraints and discipline that had hitherto
held him. He did not know, he could not analyse to himself--for what
purpose those restraints had been formerly enforced upon his life. Only
now--at this moment, his body was being flooded with a warm, riotous
satisfaction at the thought of the indulgences that were to be his.
Still this fortress of his house was bare and desolated, but now in some of
the rooms there were lights, fire, whispers, half-hidden faces, eyes behind
curtains.
The wind struck him in the face. "Enough of this--you're done for--you're
beaten--you're broken... you're going back to your hovel. You're creeping
home--don't make a fine thing of it--" the wind said.
The top of the hill rolled up to them and suddenly with the gust that came
from every quarter there was borne some sound. It was very delicate, very
mysterious--the sound, one might fancy, that the earth would make if all
spring flowers were to pierce the soil at one common instant--so fugitive a
whisper.
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