"'Were there but world enough and time, This coyness, Binkie, were not crime. .
. . But at my back I always hear----'" He wiped his forehead, which was
unpleasantly damp. "What can I do? What can I do? I haven't any notions left,
and I can't think connectedly, but I must do something, or I shall go off my
head."
The hurried walk recommenced, Dick stopping every now and again to drag forth
long-neglected canvases and old note-books; for he turned to his work by
instinct, as a thing that could not fail. "You won't do, and you won't do," he
said, at each inspection. "No more soldiers. I couldn't paint 'em. Sudden death
comes home too nearly, and this is battle and murder for me."
The day was failing, and Dick thought for a moment that the twilight of the
blind had come upon him unaware. "Allah Almighty!" he cried despairingly, "help
me through the time of waiting, and I won't whine when my punishment comes.
What can I do now, before the light goes?"
There was no answer. Dick waited till he could regain some sort of control over
himself. His hands were shaking, and he prided himself on their steadiness; he
could feel that his lips were quivering, and the sweat was running down his
face. He was lashed by fear, driven forward by the desire to get to work at
once and accomplish something, and maddened by the refusal of his brain to do
more than repeat the news that he was about to go blind.
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