come, and he loved as he had never loved before—and he hated as he did not know he could hate.
He clutched the blankets in his great hands and twisted them. There was so little he could do! But he did not know that over by a quiet stream old man Tolman lay awake, staring up at the stars, marvelling at what he had seen that day; or that Luke Taylor muttered and cocked his head to hear the breeze sounding in the white pines that stood in his garden and recalled those photographs he had seen that day, or that Philip Rowe sat in his room smoking, thin lips drawn in a strange smile of triumph.
These he could not know, and he did not know that in another bunk in that same building another man lay sleepless, hearing again the bitter words of Marcia Murray, quailing from them, suffering, and feeling that pain and humiliation absolved by the touch of Helen Foraker's hand on his, beside the Blueberry that evening.
