" Yes. devastated was the word. It would
not be true to say that he was in love with her or, indeed, had any
analysed emotion for her--he was aware of her always, was disturbed by her
always, could not keep away from her, wanted something in connection with
her far deeper than mere love-making--
What he wanted he did not know. He could not keep away from her, and yet
when he was with her nothing occurred. She did not apparently care for
him; he was not even sure that he wanted her to. At Oxford during his last
term he had thought of her--incessantly, a hot pain at his heart. He had
not invited the disturbance that had sent him down, but he had welcomed
it.
Every day he went to "The Dog and Pilchard." He drank but little and
talked to no one. He just leaned up against the wall and looked at her.
Sometimes he had a word with her. He knew that they must all be speaking
of it. Maybe the whole town was chattering. He could not think of that. He
had no plans, no determination, no resolve--and he was desperately
unhappy....
Into this strange dark confusion the thought of his mother drove itself.
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