"A good chap."
"A sensible fellow." "A pal." "No flies on Warlock." That was the
kind of figure. And the life had been physical, had never asked
questions, had never known morbidity, had lived on what it saw and
could touch and could break . . . And the other figure! That was,
physically, less plainly seen. No, there it was, standing a little
away from the other, standing away, contemptuously, despising it,
deriding it. Fat, soft, white hanging cheeks, wearing anything to
cover its body, but shining in some way through the clothes, so that
it was body that you saw. A soft body, hands soft and the colour of
the flesh pale and unhealthy. But it was the eyes that spoke: the
mouth trembled and was weak, the chin was fat and feeble, but the
eyes lived, lived--were eager, fighting, beseeching, longing,
captive eyes!
And this figure, Martin knew, was a prey to every morbid desire,
rushed to sensual excess and then crept back miserably to search
for some spiritual flagellation. Above all, it was restless, as
some one presses round a dark room searching for the lock of the
door, restless and lonely, cowardly and selfish, but searching
and sensitive and even faithful, faithful to something or to some
one .
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