He was deeply absorbed in contemplation; his
head rested heavily upon his two palms, while his eyes were deeply fixed
upon the now opened miniature which he had torn from the neck of Lucy
Munro, and which rested before him. He sighed not--he spoke not, but
ever and anon, as if perfectly unconscious all the while of what he did,
he drank from the tumbler of the compounded draught that stood before
him, hurriedly and desperately, as if to keep the strong emotion from
choking him. There was in his look a bitter agony of expression,
indicating a vexed spirit, now more strongly than ever at work in a way
which had, indeed, been one of the primest sources of his miserable
life. It was a spirit ill at rest with itself--vexed at its own
feebleness of execution--its incapacity to attain and acquire the
realization of its own wild and vague conceptions. His was the ambition
of one who discovers at every step that nothing can be known, yet will
not give up the unprofitable pursuit, because, even while making the
discovery, he still hopes vainly that he may yet, in his own person,
give the maxim the lie.
Pages:
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619