At times,
when Jan was not looking, there was a hungry light in his eyes as he
followed the other's movements, and once or twice Jan caught what was
left of this look when he turned unexpectedly. He knew what was in
Thornton's mind, and he pitied him, grieved with him in his own heart
until his own secret almost wrung itself from his lips. Somehow, in a
way that he could not understand, Thornton's sacrifice to honor, and
his despair, gave Jan strength, and a hundred times he asked himself
if a confession of his own misery would do as much for the other. He
repeated this thought to himself again and again on the afternoon of
the ninth day, when he went to the sub-commissioner's office alone.
This time Thornton had remained behind. He had left him in a gloomy
corner of the hotel room from which he had not looked up when Jan went
out with Kazan.
This ninth day was the last day for Jan Thoreau. In a dazed sort of
way he listened as the sub-commissioner told him that the work was
ended. They shook hands. It was dark when Jan came out from the
company's offices, dark with a pale gloom through which the stars were
beginning to glow--with a ghostly gloom, lightened still more in the
north with the rising fires of the northern lights. Alone Jan stood
for a few moments close down to the river.
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