He dragged his
idol down into the dust, scoffed at the piecemeal passion which measures
its gifts, the complacency of an analysed virtue, the sense of
well-living and self-contentment achieved in the rubric of a dry-as-dust
morality. She had failed him, offered him stones instead of bread.--He
signed the letter, blotted it with firm fingers, addressed the envelope,
stamped it and dropped it himself into the pillar box at the corner of
the street. Then he turned wearily homeward, filled with the strange,
almost maniacal satisfaction of the man who has killed the thing he
loves.
CHAPTER XIX
There followed days of sullen battle for Tallente, a battle with luck
against him, with his back to the wall, with despair more than once
yawning at his feet. The house in Charles Street was closed. There had
come no word to him from Jane, no news even of her departure except the
somewhat surprised reply of Parkins, when he had called on the following
afternoon.
"Her ladyship left for Devonshire, sir, by the ten-fifty train."
Tallente went back to the fight with those words ringing in his ears.
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