And all these voices, to
his ears, merged into one deep thrilling hum, these lights into one
quivering glow, that went up toward the silent stars.
And there came to him a feeling which he had often had before in many
different places--that he himself was a part of all this, the great, blind,
wistful soul of mankind, which had been here before he was born and would
be here when he was dead--still groping, yearning, struggling upward, on
and on--to something distant as the sun. And still would he be a part of it
all, through the eager lives of his children. He turned and looked at
Deborah and caught the light that was in her eyes.
CHAPTER XII
Roger awoke the next morning feeling sore and weary, and later in his
office it was hard to keep his mind on his work. He thought of young
Isadore Freedom. He was glad he had met that boy, and so he felt toward
Deborah's whole terrific family. Confused and deafening as it was, there
was something inspiring in it all. But God save him from many such
evenings! For half his life Roger had been a collector, not only of rings
but of people, too, of curious personalities. These human bits, these
memories, he had picked up as he lived along and had taken them with him
and made them his own, had trimmed and polished every one until its rough
unpleasant edges were all nicely smoothed away and it glittered and shone
like the gem that it was. For Roger was an idealist.
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