But even as he endeavoured to comfort his greedy conceit by these imaginings, he felt the shadow of the big mind falling upon them. He knew, as he had known so often of late, the power of that which was cased in its envelope of flesh, and which could not be denied.
Perhaps there is no hate so bitter, no fear so impotent and distressing, as that which is experienced by the surface for the depth.
It is the fury of the brilliant scabbard against the sword within, decoration versus that which cleaves.
Ingworth wished that he were not going away—leaving the field clear. . . .
"Have a cigar, Dicker. No?—well, here's the very best of luck."
"Thanks, the same to you!"
END OF BOOK TWO
BOOK THREE
FRUIT OF THE DEAD SEA
"Let thy fountain be blessed: and rejoice with the wife of thy youth."