Then he muttered:
"Curse him! curse him!" and an emotion which he had believed was long
since dead rose hotly in his consciousness. Before the dread spectre,
suddenly imbued with vitality, Farwell reeled and covered his face.
Murder was in his heart--the old madness of desire to wipe out, by any
means, that which barred his way to what he wanted.
"My God!" he moaned; "my God! I--I thought I--was master. I thought it
was dead in me."
Farwell ate no evening meal that night. Early he closed and locked his
outer door, drew the dark green shades, and lighted his lamp. His hands
were clammy and cold, and he could not blot out with book or violin the
horror of Charles Martin's face as it looked up at him that night so long
ago. Way on toward morning Farwell paced his room trying to forget, but
he could not.
But Priscilla, after leaving Farwell, dressed again in her plain
serviceable gown and hat, had made her way toward the farm. Her happy,
light-hearted mood was past; she felt unaccountably gloomy, and as she
walked on she sought to explain herself to herself, and presently
Jerry-Jo came into focus and would not stir from her contemplation.
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