Rathbone-Sanders that ought never to have been entangled. . . .
"A human being," White read, "the simplest human being, is a
clustering mass of aspects. No man will judge another justly who
judges everything about him. And of love in particular is this
true. We love not persons but revelations. The woman one loves is
like a goddess hidden in a shrine; for her sake we live on hope and
suffer the kindred priestesses that make up herself. The art of
love is patience till the gleam returns. . . ."
Sunday and Monday did much to develop this idea of the intricate
complexity of humanity in Benham's mind. On Monday morning he went
up from the Ship again to get Amanda alone and deliver his ultimatum
against a further secrecy, so that he could own her openly and have
no more of the interventions and separations that had barred him
from any intimate talk with her throughout the whole of Sunday. The
front door stood open, the passage hall was empty, but as he
hesitated whether he should proclaim himself with the knocker or
walk through, the door of the little drawing-room flew open and a
black-clad cylindrical clerical person entirely unknown to Benham
stumbled over the threshold, blundered blindly against him, made a
sound like "MOO" and a pitiful gesture with his arm, and fled
forth.
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