Then he would
hurry away again, pace the mean streets, jostling stupidly against
the passers-by. The pale, sweet face, the little nymph-like figure,
the little brown shoes kept calling to him. If only there would
pass away the horror of those hands! All the artist in him
shuddered at the memory of them. Always he had imagined them under
the neat, smooth gloves as fitting in with all the rest of her,
dreaming of the time when he would hold them in his own, caressing
them, kissing them. Would it be possible to forget them, to
reconcile oneself to them? He must think--must get away from these
crowded streets where faces seemed to grin at him. He remembered
that Parliament had just risen, that work was slack in the office.
He would ask that he might take his holiday now--the next day. And
they had agreed.
He packed a few things into a knapsack. From the voices of the
hills and streams he would find counsel.
He took no count of his wanderings. One evening at a lonely inn he
met a young doctor. The innkeeper's wife was expecting to be taken
with child that night, and the doctor was waiting downstairs till
summoned. While they were talking, the idea came to him. Why had
he not thought of it? Overcoming his shyness, he put his questions.
What work would it be that would cause such injuries? He described
them, seeing them before him in the shadows of the dimly lighted
room, those poor, pitiful little hands.
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