This
proved too much for one of the faithful tonsured dependents of
the place, and he ventured to expostulate with his master. But
he never did so again.
When the guests were gone, and the great room was empty, the old
man would draw himself nearer to the enormous fire, and review
once more, for the thousandth time, the long adventure of his
life. He would bring out his diaries and his memoranda, he would
rearrange his notes, he would turn over again the yellow leaves
of faded correspondences; seizing his pen, he would pour out his
comments and reflections, and fill, with an extraordinary
solicitude, page after page with elucidations, explanations,
justifications, of the vanished incidents of a remote past. He
would snip with scissors the pages of ancient journals, and with
delicate ecclesiastical fingers, drop unknown mysteries into the
flames.
Sometimes he would turn to the four red folio scrapbooks with
their collection of newspaper cuttings, concerning himself, over
a
period of thirty years. Then the pale cheeks would flush and the
close-drawn lips would grow even more menacing than before.
'Stupid,
mulish malice,' he would note. 'Pure lying--conscious, deliberate
and designed.' 'Suggestive lying. Personal animosity is at the
bottom of this.'
And then he would suddenly begin to doubt.
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