Brent! If it were he leaning beside her--if he and she were
coming up the bay toward the City of the Sun!
A billow of heartsick desolation surged over her.
Alone--always alone. And still alone. And always to be alone.
Garvey came aboard when the gangway was run out. He was in
black wherever black could be displayed. But the grief
shadowing his large, simple countenance had the stamp of the
genuine. And it was genuine, of the most approved enervating
kind. He had done nothing but grieve since his master's
death--had left unattended all the matters the man he loved
and grieved for would have wished put in order. Is it out of
charity for the weakness of human nature and that we may think
as well as possible of it--is that why we admire and praise
most enthusiastically the kind of love and the kind of
friendship and the kind of grief that manifest themselves in
obstreperous feeling and wordiness, with no strength left for
any attempt to _do?_ As Garvey greeted them the tears filled
Clelie's eyes and she turned away. But Susan gazed at him
steadily; in her eyes there were no tears, but a look that
made Garvey choke back sobs and bend his head to hide his
expression. What he saw--or felt--behind her calmness filled
him with awe, with a kind of terror. But he did not recognize
what he saw as grief; it did not resemble any grief he had
felt or had heard about.
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