And my thinking,
multifold and effective as it was, was but as a chip on the surface of a
freshet in a mountain gorge amid the torrent of emotions which inundated
me.
Since I had begun to mend as the result of the succour and medication of
old Chryseros Philargyrus I had resolutely refrained from, thinking of
Vedia. I had argued with myself that it was impossible for me to forget or
ignore the daily and hourly contrasts between my former status as a
wealthy nobleman and my present condition as a fugitive always in danger
and generally in acute discomfort. Amid the inevitable resultant
depression I might keep alive, healthy and sane if I concentrated my
thoughts on self-congratulation at my survival. If I dwelt on my downfall
I should lose my wits. If, in addition to thoughts of my loss of rank,
wealth, friends and ease I yielded to my inclination to brood over my loss
of Vedia, I should infallibly go insane. I resolutely put thoughts of her
away. I succeeded in keeping them away. During my winter at the hut in the
mountains, during my succeeding adventures, I had not thought of Vedia;
thoughts of her had crossed my mind but seldom and fleetingly.
Now, all at once, I was overwhelmed by the realization of how ardently,
how unalterably I loved her, how keenly I longed for her, how tenderly I
felt towards her.
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