And still only the darkness and the silence. Nothing more at
first. But presently what seemed to him a marvel.
He had by this time grown at ease with his power of thought-reading,
at ease with this new sense of the hearing of silence. The differing
scents of these three flowers hidden in the night had been breathed
out to him. With infallible certainty he had recognized each one,
differentiated the one from the other. And as the scent of one flower
had failed, the scent of another had risen upon him, until he had known
the heart of each of the three. Then for a while was the night scentless,
silent, blank, empty. But presently the doctor was aware of an uneasiness
and of an anxiety stealing upon him. Whence it came he could not tell.
Only this he knew, that he received it from something, but that it came
neither from the lady of the feathers, from Valentine, nor from Julian.
From whom, then, could it emanate, this weird eagerness, this fluttering,
pulsing fear, and hope, and intention? From himself only? He asked
himself that question. Was he communing in the dark with his own soul?
He knew that he was not. The scent of this new and unknown flower grew
stronger in the night, more penetrating and intentional.
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