Then in a flash came over him the sickening realization that this
devotion was a sham; that it was hysteria, simple pretense. He ceased
to writhe on the floor. It was like coming to consciousness in a
humiliating situation. He blushed at his folly, and rose hastily from
before the crucifix.
"I have been acting private theatricals," he muttered scornfully; "and
for what audience?"
He threw himself again into his chair, burying his face in his hands.
He plunged into a reverie so deep and so self-searching that it could
have been fathomed by no plummet.
"I do not believe," he said at last aloud, raising his face as if to
address the crucifix. "I have never believed. I have simply bejuggled
myself. I have been a contemptible lie in the sight of men, not even
knowing enough to be honest to myself."
He was silent a moment, a smile of bitter contempt curling his lip.
"I have not even been a man," he added.
Then he rose with a spring to his feet, and looked about him,
stretching out his arms as if to embrace all the world.
"But now," he exclaimed with gladness bursting through every syllable,
"at last I am free!"
XXVIII
BEDECKING ORNAMENTS OF PRAISE
Love's Labor's Lost, ii.
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