Since the death of Rip the
doctor had formed the opinion that Valentine was no longer perfectly
sane. His excitement, the fury of his eyes when he spoke of the triumphs
of will, seemed to give the clue to his transformation. The insane
perpetually glorify themselves, and are transcendent egoists. Surely
the egoism of insanity had peeped out in Valentine's diatribe upon the
eternity of a strong man's individual will. The night of the trance had
been a strange crisis of his life. He had seemed to recover from it,
to come back from that wonderful simulation of death healthy, calm,
reasonable as before. This might have been only seeming. In that sleep
the sane and beautiful Valentine might have died, the insane and
unbeautiful Valentine have been born. There are many instances of a
sudden and acute shock to the nervous system leaving an indelible and
dreary writing upon the nature. If Valentine had thus been tossed to
madness, it was very possible that his dog, an instinctive creature,
should recognize the change with terror. It was even possible that other
instinctive creatures should divine the hideous mind of a maniac hidden
in the beautiful body of an apparently normal man. And Cuckoo, she too
was instinctive, a girl without education, culture, the reading that
opens the mind and sometimes shuts the eyes.
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