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And there, in an attitude of smiling attention, stood the tall figure of Ibrahim. Isaacson felt almost startled to find his approach known, to receive a graceful greeting. He stepped on board followed closely by Hassan. The deck was strewn with scantily clad men, profoundly sleeping. Isaacson addressed himself in a low voice to Ibrahim. "You understand English?" "Yes, my gentleman.
I would love that interview. Country policeman, lunatic asylum man, Mr. Isaacson highly excited, and myself." He sat down to write the fake letters addressed to Mr. Isaacson by his uncle Julius Goldberg and his partner Marcus Cohen. As he wrote he talked over his shoulder on the subject of disguises, alleging that the only really impenetrable disguise was that of a nigger minstrel.
"At first things were not so bad. I agreed I thought it was only reasonable to wait till Mr. Armine woke up and to see how he was then. He slept for some time longer, and we sat there waiting. She I must say she has charm." Even in the midst of his anxiety, of his nervous tension, Isaacson could scarcely help smiling.
He turned at last, and slowly, almost with precaution, he moved from the sunlight into the darkness. And darkness led to deeper darkness. Never before in any building had Isaacson felt the call to advance so strongly as he felt it now. And yet he lingered. He was forced to linger by the perfect beauty of form which met him in this temple.
"Isaacson!" "Yes?" He turned a little in his seat. "Grand music! But it's all wrong." "Why?" "Wrong in its lesson." The artist in Isaacson could not conceal a shudder. "I don't look for a lesson; I don't want a lesson in it." "But the composer forces it on one a lesson of despair. Give it all up! No use to make your effort. The Immanent Will broods over you. You must go down in the end.
Isaacson remembered how this woman had got the better of him in London, how she had looked as she stood in her room at the Savoy, when he saw her for the last time before she married his friend. She had been dressed in rose colour that day. Now she was in black for Harwich. It seemed that for evening wear she had brought some "thin mourning." Did he mean her to get the better of him again?
Armine brought to Meyer Isaacson a sudden and immense feeling of relief.
Suddenly Isaacson breathed quietly. He unclenched his hands. A wave it was like that a wave of strong self-possession seemed to inundate him. Now, in the darkness on the bank, a great doctor stood. And this doctor had nothing to do with the far-off lights by Edfou. His mission lay elsewhere. "Go forth go forth from this world!"
He took up a paper the Morning Post opened it, and glanced casually over the middle page. "Sudden death of the Earl of Harwich." So Nigel's brother was gone, and, but for the twin boys so recently arrived, Mrs. Armine would at this moment be Countess of Harwich! Isaacson read the paragraph quickly; then he put the paper down and opened his window. He wanted to think in the air.
Monotonous work, but swiftly done, a filling up of many of the hours of his life which were near at hand. He sat down, took a packet of his printed engagement forms, and a pen, put them before him, then opened one of the letters: "4, Manton Street, Mayfair, Jan. 2. "Dear Doctor Isaacson: "My health," etc., etc. He opened another: "200, Park Lane, Jan.
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