And now, leaning there, his face buried in his hands, hours that he
spent with her came crowding back upon him, and in his ears her voice
echoed and echoed, and his hands trembled with the scented memory of her
touch, and his soul quivered and cried out for her.
Storm after storm swept him; and in the tempest he abandoned reason,
blinded, stunned, crouching there with head lowered and his clenched
hands across his face.
But storms, given right of way, pass on and over, and tempests sweep
hearts cleaner; and after a long while he lifted his bowed head and sat
up, squaring his shoulders.
Presently he picked up his pipe again, held it a moment, then laid it
aside. Then he leaned forward, breathing deeply but quietly, and picked
up a pen and a sheet of paper. For the time had come for his letter to
her, and he was ready.
The letter he wrote was one of those gay, cheerful, inconsequential
letters which, from the very beginning of their occasional
correspondence, had always been to her most welcome and delightful.
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