They had meant so much to him that he
couldn't conceive of asking more, when perhaps they were nothing but the
first fruits.
The wind increased in violence; the spray was salt on his mustache, and
clung to the nap of his clothing. The radiance that marked Trouville and
Honfleur grew dim almost to extinction. Along the quay the cafes began
to diminish the number of their lights. The cheerful groups broke up,
strolling home to the mansard or to the fo'castle, with bursts of
drunken or drowsy song. Davenant continued to sit crouched, huddled,
bowed. He ceased to argue, or to follow the conflict between
self-interest and duty, or to put up a fight of any kind. He was content
to sit still and suffer. In its own way suffering was a relief. It was
the first time he had given it a chance since he had brought himself to
facing squarely the fact of his useless, pointless love. He had always
dodged it by finding something to be done, or choked it down by sheer
force of will. Now he let it rush in on him, all through him, all over
him, flooding his mind and spirit, making his heart swell and his blood
surge and his nerves ache and his limbs throb and quiver. If he could
have formed a thought it would have been that of the Hebrew Psalmist
when he felt himself poured out like water.
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