I was puzzled to find an
adequate reason for this sudden emotional outburst. Hitherto she had
accepted the prospect of a resumption of married life with a fatalistic
calm. Now when the man is either dead or has vanished into space,
she pins all her hopes of happiness on finding him. And why had her
salvation from destruction nothing to do with Dale? There is obviously
another range of emotions at work beneath it all; but what their nature
is baffles me. Although I contemplate with equanimity my little
corner in the Garden of Prosperpine, and with indifference this common
lodging-house of earth, and although I view mundane affairs with the
same fine, calm, philosophic, satirical eye as if I were already a
disembodied spirit, yet I do not like to be baffled. It makes me angry.
But during this interview with Lola Brandt I had not time to be angry.
I am angry now. In fact I am in a condition bordering on that of a mad
dog. If Rogers came and disturbed me now, as I am writing, I would bite
him. But I will set calmly down the story of this appalling afternoon.
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