Even when he wrote the letter to the
prison, promising to meet Ida, he had acted as if out of mere
humanity. It needed a chance such as the present to open his eyes.
That she should quit the prison, and, not finding him, wander away
in blank misery and hopelessness, most likely embittered by the
thought that he had carelessly neglected to meet her, and so driven
to despair--such a possibility was intolerable. The fear of it
began to goad him in flesh and spirit. With a sudden violent
stringing of all his sinews, he wrenched at the bonds, but only with
the effect of exhausting himself and making the walls and ceiling
reel before his eyes. The attempt to utter cries resulted in nothing
but muffled moaning. Then, mastering himself once more, he resolved
to be patient. Slimy would not fail him.
He tried not to think of Ida in any way, but this was beyond his
power. Again and again she came before his mind. When he endeavoured
to supplant her by the image of Maud Enderby, the latter's face only
irritated him. Till now, it had been just the reverse; the thought
of Maud had always brought quietness; Ida he had recognised as the
disturbing element of his life, and had learned to associate her
with his least noble instincts.
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