He had told it all; of sitting there
afraid to look, of looking and seeing and comprehending. Oh how he had
comprehended! It was as if his mind too, his mind trained to grasp
things, had turned against him, was stabbing him with its relentless
clearness of vision. He told her of the merciless comprehension with
which he saw the giving up of his work, the changing of his life, the
giving up--the eternal giving up. He told her of how it had seemed to
mean the making over of his soul. For his soul had always cried for
conquest, for victory, for doing things. How would he turn it now to
submission, to surrender, to relinquishment? Everything had been tumbling
about him, he said, when that knock came at the door as the call from
life, the intrusion of those everyday things which would not let him
alone, even in an hour like that. And then of the boy with his paltry
trouble which seemed great--the hurts--the final rising up of the
instinct to help, despite it all. Then of sitting there alone and seeing
a faint light in the distance, wondering if, in all new and different
ways, he could not keep his place in the world.
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