His mood was not easy. He resented Ju Penrose. He resented all men of
his type. He knew him for a crook. He believed he possessed no more
conscience than any other habitual criminal. But his resentment was
the weak echo of an upbringing which had never intended him for such
association, and, in spite of it, the man's personality held him, and
its strength dominated him.
His way took him out across an almost trackless waste of rich
grass-land. Somewhere out there, hidden away at the foot of the
Cathills, lay his homestead, and the wife for whom he had abandoned all
that his birth had entitled him to. During the past two years he had
learned truly all that he had sacrificed for the greatest of all dreams
of youth.
But these things, for the moment, were not in his mind. Only Penrose.
Ju Penrose, whom he had learned to detest and despise out of the
educated mind that was his. The man's final homily was entirely lost
upon Bob. Such was his temper that only the gross outrages against the
precepts of his youth remained.
Pages:
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52