. ." I
wanted to know what that if was. But Powell could not say. There was
something--a difference. No doubt there was--in fineness perhaps. The
father, fastidious, cerebral, morbidly shrinking from all contacts, could
only sing in harmonious numbers of what the son felt with a dumb and
reckless sincerity.
* * * * *
Possessed by most strong men's touching illusion as to the frailness of
women and their spiritual fragility, it seemed to Anthony that he would
be destroying, breaking something very precious inside that being. In
fact nothing less than partly murdering her. This seems a very extreme
effect to flow from Fyne's words. But Anthony, unaccustomed to the
chatter of the firm earth, never stayed to ask himself what value these
words could have in Fyne's mouth. And indeed the mere dark sound of them
was utterly abhorrent to his native rectitude, sea-salted, hardened in
the winds of wide horizons, open as the day.
He wished to blurt out his indignation but she regarded him with an
expectant air which checked him. His visible discomfort made her uneasy.
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