She had done that twice already--once about going to the opera
instead of listening to a lecture on Indian ethnology and once about
a week-end in Kent. . . . He hated hurting his mother, and he was
beginning to know now how easily she was hurt. It is an abominable
thing to hurt one's mother--whether one has a justification or
whether one hasn't.
Recoiling from this, he was at once resumed by Mrs. Skelmersdale.
Who had in fact an effect of really never having been out of the
room. But now he became penitent about her. His penitence expanded
until it was on a nightmare scale. At last it blotted out the
heavens. He felt like one of those unfortunate victims of religious
mania who are convinced they have committed the Sin against the Holy
Ghost. (Why had he gone there to lunch? That was the key to it.
WHY had he gone there to lunch?) . . . He began to have remorse for
everything, for everything he had ever done, for everything he had
ever not done, for everything in the world. In a moment of lucidity
he even had remorse for drinking that stout honest cup of black
coffee.
Pages:
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229