The lights of the Casa del Mare were lost to his eyes in the night. He
looked for them still. He strained his eyes to see them. But the
powerful night would not yield up its prey.
And now, in the darkness and with Hermione's last words ringing in his
ears, he felt almost overwhelmed by the solitariness of his life in
the world of lives.
That day, before he came to the island, he had met himself face to
face like a man meeting his double. He had stripped himself bare. He
had searched himself for the truth. Remembering all the Marchesino had
said, he had demanded of his heart the truth, uncertain whether it
would save or slay him. It had not slain him. When the colloquy was
over he was still upright.
But he had realized as never before the delicate poise of human
nature, set, without wings, on a peak with gulfs about it. Had he not
looked in time, and with clear, steadfast eyes, might he not have
fallen?
His affection for Vere was perfectly pure, was the love of a man
without desire for a gracious and charming child.
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