From the beginning he had refused
to consider the possibility of conviction; he was innocent, he would
be cleared. But as the days dragged on, a shadow began to dog his
steps and to sit on the foot of his bed by night, grinning at him
through bars of iron.
Had there been a friend to whom he could turn during these days he
might have been spared some of the hours of anguish he endured, but
his pride was cut to the quick, and he shrank from seeing any one who
knew him or his family. Cropsie Decker could have helped him, but
Cropsie was in Mexico. To Noah Wicker he had ceased to be an
individual, he had become a client, a first client, and personalities
were swamped in abstractions. The only place where he could have found
sympathy and understanding was at Thornwood, the hospitable door of
which he had resolutely closed with his own hand. If he thought the
depths of loneliness had been sounded out there in the Orient, he had
now to learn that it is only in one's own country, among one's own
people, that the plummet strikes bottom.
The day before the case was to be presented Noah came up from the
city, and once again they went over every tiresome, familiar detail.
Pages:
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334