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Updated: May 21, 2025
Then, with the closing of the soul-windows, mental and physical fatigue brought their own gentle healing, and in the cold, little study, bare, even, of many books, with the fire smoldering cheerlessly before him, he fell asleep.
Steele thought of his mother, who looked at things through a magnifying lorgnette, and laughed a little cheerlessly. "I'll go out and meet them, anyway," he comforted. "Have Jack fix me up for the hike in the morning, Breed. I'll start after breakfast." He was glad when supper was over and he was back in his own cabin smoking his pipe.
He was no hangman, he was incapable of lashing men on to their death. He could not be deaf to their woe, to that childlike whimpering which stung his conscience like a bitter reproach. He stamped on the ground defiantly. Everything in him arose in rebellion against the task that called him. Below, the field of battle stretched far out, cheerlessly grey. No tree, no patch of green.
He read the Evening Telegram and cheerlessly peered out of the window at the gray snow-veil which shrouded Forty-second Street. As he finished his dessert and stirred his coffee he stared into a street-car stalled in a line of traffic outside. Within the car, seen through the snow-mist, was a girl of twenty-two or three, with satiny slim features and ash-blond hair.
And Kirk snuggled into the capacious folds of Ken's Burberry, apparently confident that his brother really would claim it when he needed it. Ken and Felicia sat up, feeding the fire occasionally, until long after Kirk's quiet breathing told them that he was asleep. "Well, we've made rather a mess of things, so far," Ken observed, somewhat cheerlessly.
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