He had striven
all his life to do what he could for her, and he'd nothing to reproach
himself with. She was gone, but he'd done his best for her. He wiped his
eyes with his white handkerchief. He'd nothing to reproach himself for,
he repeated. All his life he'd done his best for her.
And that was how he tried to dismiss her. He never thought of her
personally. Everything deep in him he denied. Paul hated his father
for sitting sentimentalising over her. He knew he would do it in
the public-houses. For the real tragedy went on in Morel in spite of
himself. Sometimes, later, he came down from his afternoon sleep, white
and cowering.
"I HAVE been dreaming of thy mother," he said in a small voice.
"Have you, father? When I dream of her it's always just as she was when
she was well. I dream of her often, but it seems quite nice and natural,
as if nothing had altered."
But Morel crouched in front of the fire in terror.
The weeks passed half-real, not much pain, not much of anything, perhaps
a little relief, mostly a _nuit blanche_.
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