But, in spite of the success of his mission, he sat with a box of
fresh eggs in his lap and a huge bunch of flowers in his hand, his hat
rammed over his eyes, staring gloomily out of the car window into the
starless night.
Since Eleanor's departure he had had no word from her, and the news that
filtered through Valley Mead was more disconcerting than the silence. The
thought of her dancing, sailing, and motoring with Harold Phipps filled
him with a frenzy of jealousy. He grew bitter at the thought of her
flitting heedlessly from one luxurious pleasure to another, while Cass
lay in that stifling city, fighting for his life and lacking even the
necessities for his comfort.
Every week since her departure he had written her, even though the
letters grew shorter and blunter as his duties increased. Up until now,
however, he, like every one else, had tried to shield Eleanor from
anything ugly and sordid. He had tried to make light of the situation and
reassure her as to results; but he was determined to do it no longer. It
wasn't right, he told himself angrily, for anybody to go through life
blinded to all the misery and suffering and poverty in the world.
Pages:
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234