He spoke to no one;
he shunned the Dodds: he hated them. He said it was through visiting
their house she had met her death, and at their door. He would not let
himself see it was he who had sent her there with his lie. He loathed
Alfred, calling him the cause of all.
He asked nobody to the funeral: and, when Edward begged permission to
come, he gave a snarl like a wild beast and went raging from him. But
Edward would go: and at the graveside pitying Heaven relieved the young
fellow's choking heart with tears. But no such dew came to that parched
old man, who stood on its other side like the withered Archangel, his
eyes gloomy and wild, his white cheek ploughed deep with care and crime
and anguish, his lofty figure bowed by his long warfare, his soul burning
and sickening by turns, with hatred and rebellion, with desolation and
despair.
He went home and made his will; for he felt life hang on him like lead,
and that any moment he might kill himself to be rid of it. Strange to
say, he left a sum of money to Edward Dodd. A moment before, he didn't
know he was going to do it: a moment after, he was half surprised he had
done it, and minded to undo it; but would not take the trouble.
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