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Updated: June 22, 2025
He seemed, indeed, steady of hearing to the verge of stolidity, yet in a few seconds he had noted and drawn rapid conclusions from the environment. The cheerlessness of the house had struck him and the somber room, decorated, if one calls it decoration, with faded steel engravings of Landseer hunting dogs guarding dead birds and rabbits, impressed him. Mr. Tollman bowed coldly.
There were times when even he suspected that it lacked something of complete attainment. He had now been married six months and his wife, though undeniably loyal, was as far as ever from kindling into that eager fire of complete love which he had boasted he would awaken in her. When Conscience had warned him that their marriage would be an incomplete relationship Tollman had inwardly smiled.
Eben Tollman?" inquired the visitor and Conscience nodded with that quick graciousness of expression which always brought to her face a quality of radiance. "Yes, the maid didn't get your name, I believe." The hint of pain and timidity had left the amber eyes now and in their place had come something more difficult to define. "No, I preferred giving it to you myself. I am Marian Holbury."
Her hair fell in heavy braids over the sheer silk of her night dress and her bosom was undefended against the bite of the fog's chill. At breakfast the next morning Eben Tollman, who was usually the least talkative at table, found that the burden of conversation fell chiefly upon himself.
"I must be honest with you. I owe you many debts, but that comes first of all. I've tried to forget tried with every particle of resolution in me but I can't. I still love him. I think I'll always love him." Tollman bowed. He made no impassioned protest and offered no reminder that the man who still held her affection had proven himself an apostate, but he said quietly.
He had come because he thought Conscience wished to show him that she was happy and he forgiven. Now it appeared that her wishes had not been consulted, and she stood there with an expression almost stricken. Tollman had been impertinent if nothing worse. To Eben Tollman it was all quite clear. Here was a guilty pair too confounded for immediate recovery.
Eben Tollman signed his name with such marked originality that it was almost as difficult to decipher as to forge. But that was a minor and short-lived perplexity. It was indubitably Eben Tollman who had sent this invitation and he said that he did so at the request of his wife.
Picture the Sphinx growing garrulous. Picture Napoleon seeking retreat in a monastery but don't try to visualize Mr. Tollman making love." "Perhaps I'm premature," announced Farquaharson with conviction. "But I'm not mistaken. If he hasn't made love to you, he will." "Wherefore this burst of prophecy?" "I don't have to be prophetic. I saw him look at you and I didn't like the way he did it.
Seemingly his one wish was to treat his life as a slate upon which every unacceptable word and line should be sponged out and rewritten. The wife sat in the study of her husband's house a day or two after their return, when Tollman entered with a face full of apprehension.
At all events Eben Tollman had no children and his thoughts fell into brooding and bitterness. His present attitude needed only a spark, such as jealousy or suspicion might supply, to fire it into some quirk of mad and bitter resentment. He turned out the lamp and went slowly up the stairs.
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