After holding the shrunken hand
for a moment he was convulsed with an agonising sob, and had to
turn away.
Amy saw that her husband wished to speak to her; she bent over
him.
'Ask him to stay, dear. Give him a room in the hotel.'
'I will.'
Biffen sat down by the bedside, and remained for half an hour.
His friend inquired whether he had yet heard about the novel; the
answer was a shake of the head. When he rose, Reardon signed to
him to bend down, and whispered:
'It doesn't matter what happens; she is mine again.'
The next day was very cold, but a blue sky gleamed over land and
sea. The drives and promenades were thronged with people in
exuberant health and spirits. Biffen regarded this spectacle with
resentful scorn; at another time it would have moved him merely
to mirth, but not even the sound of the breakers when he had
wandered as far as possible from human contact could help him to
think with resignation of the injustice which triumphs so
flagrantly in the destinies of men. Towards Amy he had no shadow
of unkindness; the sight of her in tears had impressed him as
profoundly, in another way, as that of his friend's wasted
features.
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