The Professor's House
All the afternoon he had sat there at the table
where now Augusta was reading, thinking over his
life, trying to see where he had made his mistake.
Perhaps the mistake was merely in an attitude of
mind. He had never learned to live without delight.
And he would have to learn to, just as, in a Prohibition country, he supposed he would have to learn to
live without sherry. Theoretically he knew that life
is possible, may be even pleasant, without joy, without passionate griefs. But it had never occurred to him that he might have to live like that.
Though he had been low-spirited all summer, he told the truth when he told Dr. Dudley that he had not been melancholy. He had no more thought of suicide than he had thought of embezzling. He had always regarded it as a grave social misdemeanour—except when it occurred in very evil times, as a form of protest. Yet when he was confronted by accidental extinction, he had felt no will to resist, but had let chance take its way, as it had done with him so often. He did not remember springing up from the couch, though he did remember a crisis, a moment of acute, agonized strangulation.
His temporary release from consciousness seemed to have been beneficial. He had let something go—and it was gone: something very precious, that he could not consciously have relinquished, probably. He doubted whether his family would ever realize
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