He
asked to be set down at a suburban railway station, and was dismayed
to find it crowded with early commuters, who stared at the big car
with interest. On the platform, eyeing him with unfriendly eyes,
was Nolan. Rodney made a movement toward him. The situation was
intolerable, absurd. But Nolan turned his back and proceeded to
read his newspaper.
Perhaps not in years had Rodney Page faced the truth about himself
so clearly as he did that morning, riding into the city on the train
which carried, somewhere ahead, that quietly contemptuous figure
that was Denis Nolan. Faced the truth, saw himself for what he was,
and loathed the thing he saw. For a little time, too, it was given
him to see Natalie for what she was, for what she would always be,
her sole contribution to life the web of her selfishness, carefully
woven, floating apparently aimlessly, and yet snaring and holding
relentlessly whatever it touched. Killing freedom. He saw Clayton
and Graham and himself, feeders for her monstrous complacency and
vanity, and he made a definite determination to free himself.
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