Mr. Wrenn resented the Norfolk jacket. Of
course, the kingly men in evening dress would be expected to
take Istra away from him, but a Norfolk jacket--He did not
call it that. Though he had worn one in the fair village of
Aengusmere, it was still to him a "coat with a belt."
He thought of Nelly all evening. He heard her--there on the
same floor with him--talking to Miss Proudfoot, who stood at
Nelly's door, three hours after she was supposed to be asleep.
"No," Nelly was saying with evidently fictitious cheerfulness,
"no, it was just a little headache.... It's much better. I
think I can sleep now. Thank you very much for coming."
Nelly hadn't told Mr. Wrenn that she had a severe headache--she
who had once, a few weeks before, run to him with a cut in her
soft small finger, demanding that he bind it up.... He went
slowly to bed.
He had lain awake half an hour before his agony so overpowered
him that he flung out of bed. He crouched low by the bed, like
a child, his legs curled under him, the wooden sideboard pressing
into his chest in one long line of hot pain, while he prayed:
"O God, O God, forgive me, forgive me, oh, forgive me! Here I
been forgetting Nelly (and I _love_ her) and comparing her with
Istra and not appreciating her, and Nelly always so sweet to me
and trusting me so--O God, keep me away from wickedness!"
He huddled there many minutes, praying, the scorching pressure
of the bedside growing more painful.
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