It
needed a sharper summons, a nearer reality, to rouse her from the
conviction that her life was bound for ever to that of the man whom she
had chosen and for whom she had given so much. It would all go on, right
to the end of everything. The telegram had not shaken that faith in her,
nor altered that despair.
CHAPTER XVII.
DONE FOR?
A knotty point of casuistry was engaging the thoughts of the Dean of St.
Neot's. Morewood had been to see him, had told without disguise the whole
story of his blunder at the dinner-table at Ashwood, had referred to
Alexander Quisante's serious illness, and had finally, without apology
and without periphrasis, expressed the hope that Alexander Quisante would
die. The Dean's rebuke had produced a strenuous effort at justification.
Quisante was, the painter pointed out, no doubt a force, but a force
essentially immoral (Morewood took up morality when it suited his
purpose); he did work, but he made unhappiness; he affected people's
lives, but not so as to promote their well-being.
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