"He is a man
in torment of soul. He has gone to this extreme of religious
fanaticism because he is still uncertain of himself. We had
another long talk to-day. I may help him."
"does he deserve the sacrifice of your life?"
She did not take up my question directly; but sat for a few
minutes with her chin on her hand looking into the fire.
"He is a man of evil passions," she resumed, at last. "Drink and
women mainly dragged him down. I knew the hell of it during the
short time of our married life. If he falls away now, he
believes he is damned to all eternity. He believes in the
material torture--flames and devils and pitchforks--of damned
souls. He says in me alone lies his salvation. I must go. If
the tin church gets too awful, I shall run over to Delphine
Carrere for a week to steady my nerves."
What could I say? The abomination of desolation lay around about
me. I might have prated to her of my needs, wrung her heart with
the piteousness of my appeal. _Cui bono?_ _I_ can't whine to
women--or to men either, for the matter of that.
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