He was still under fifty, but he
looked as though he were seventy. He had always been thin, but he was
thinner now than ever. He was very grey, and stooped so much, that
though he came forward a step or two to greet his guest, it seemed as
though he had not taken the trouble to raise himself to his proper
height. "You find me a much altered man," he said. The change had
been so great that it was impossible to deny it, and Phineas
muttered something of regret that his host's health should be so
bad. "It is trouble of the mind,--not of the body, Mr. Finn. It is
her doing,--her doing. Life is not to me a light thing, nor are
the obligations of life light. When I married a wife, she became
bone of my bone, and flesh of my flesh. Can I lose my bones and
my flesh,--knowing that they are not with God but still subject
elsewhere to the snares of the devil, and live as though I were a
sound man? Had she died I could have borne it. I hope they have made
you comfortable, Mr. Finn?"
"Oh, yes," said Phineas.
"Not that Loughlinter can be comfortable now to any one.
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