He
was a spender, too, and treated all his friends liberally. Lemuel was
to see if there was any wine in the damned jumping-off place; and when
would they all go to Atlantic?
"Never," Doret repeated.
Bowman laughed skeptically.
The rage stirred and increased, blinding Lemuel Doret's heart, stinging
his eyes. Bella, watching him, became quieter, and she gave June--she
called him June--a warning pressure of her fingers. Her husband saw it
with indifference; everything small was lost in the hot tide enveloping
him. His hands twitched, but there was no other outward sign of his
tumult. He smoked his cigarettes with extreme deliberation.
It was evening again, and they were sitting on the narrow porch. The
west was a serene lake of fading light against which the trees made
dark blots of foliage. Nantbrook seemed unreal, a place of thin shadow,
the future unsubstantial as well; only the past was actual in Lemuel
Doret's mind--the gray cold prison, the city at night, locked rooms
filled with smoke and lurid lights, avaricious voices in the mechanical
sentences of gambling, agonized tones begging for a shot, just a shot,
of an addicted drug, a girl crying.
He tried to sing a measure of praise beneath his breath but the tune
and words evaded him. He glanced furtively at Bowman's complacent bulk,
the flushed face turned fatuously to Bella. Under the other's left arm
his coat was drawn smoothly on a cushion of fat.
Later Lemuel stopped at Flavilla's bed, and though she was composed he
was vaguely alarmed at what seemed to him an unreal rigidity.
Pages:
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74