He opened it
and took from it first a little bottle of chloral.
"Ah," he said, "I shall want you if I am to sleep again." Setting the
bottle down, he extracted from a dirty envelope one or two letters and a
faded photograph. It was the same that used to hang over his bed in his
quarters at Maritzburg. These he destroyed, tearing them into small bits
with his strong brown fingers.
Then he shut the box and sat down at the table to think, opening the
sluice-gates of his mind and letting the sea of misery flow in, as it
were.
This, then, was the woman whom he had forgiven and loved and honoured
for all these years. This was the end and this the reward of all his
devotion and of all his hopes. And he smiled in bitterness of his pain
and self-contempt.
What was he to do? Go back to South Africa? He had not the heart for it.
Live here? He could not. His existence had been wasted. He had lost his
delusion--the beautiful delusion of his life--and he felt as though it
would drive him mad, as the man whose shadow left him went mad.
He rose from the chair, opened the window, and looked out. It was a
clear frosty night, and the stars shone brightly. For some while he
stood looking at them; then he undressed himself.
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