Then I smelt the strong smell of cigarettes from Mr.
Shaynor's clothing, and heard, as though it had been the rending of
trumpets, the rattle of his breathing. I was still in my place of
observation, much as one would watch a rifle-shot at the butts, half-bent,
hands on my knees, and head within a few inches of the black, red, and
yellow blanket of his shoulder. I was whispering encouragement, evidently
to my other self, sounding sentences, such as men pronounce in dreams.
"If he has read Keats, it proves nothing. If he hasn't--like causes _must_
beget like effects. There is no escape from this law. _You_ ought to be
grateful that you know 'St. Agnes Eve' without the book; because, given
the circumstances, such as Fanny Brand, who is the key of the enigma, and
approximately represents the latitude and longitude of Fanny Brawne;
allowing also for the bright red colour of the arterial blood upon the
handkerchief, which was just what you were puzzling over in the shop just
now; and counting the effect of the professional environment, here almost
perfectly duplicated--the result is logical and inevitable. As inevitable
as induction."
Still, the other half of my soul refused to be comforted. It was cowering
in some minute and inadequate corner--at an immense distance.
Hereafter, I found myself one person again, my hands still gripping my
knees, and my eyes glued on the page before Mr.
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