And he turned to her for sympathy, and he received it in
full measure, pressed down and running over. He told her his thought,
and he told her his feelings, his schemes, his struggles, his moments
of exaltation, his depressions. Something, much indeed of him was
hers, the egotistic part of a man that does really give, but that
keeps back much, and that seeks much more than it gives. And what he
sought she eagerly, generously gave, with both hands, never counting
any cost. Always she was giving and always he was taking.
Then they were in London, in another room full of books. He stood by a
fire, and she was seated with a bundle of letters in her lap. And his
heart was full of something that was like anger, and of a dull and
smouldering jealousy. And hers was full of a new and wonderful beauty,
a piercing joy.
He sighed deeply. He stirred. He looked up for a moment and listened.
But all the house was silent. And again he bent over the death-charm.
He stood by a door. Outside was the hum of traffic, inside a narrow
room.
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