Thirteen years in God-forsaken outposts, with never a sight of a
woman's face, the sound of her voice, the swish of her gown, nor
a touch of the spell which radiates from her presence.
He had never made friends. Others had come up to him and passed
him, and had gone to the cities, leaving him to bear the brunt
of the cold, the heat, the watchfulness. He had made his bed; he
was too much his father's son to whine because it was hard.
Often he used to think how a few words, from a pride humbled,
would have removed the barrier. But the words never came, nor
was the pride ever humbled.
Out of all the thirteen years he could remember only six months
of pleasure. He had been transferred temporarily to Calcutta,
where his Colonel, who had received secret information
concerning him, had treated him like a gentleman, and had
employed him as regimental interpreter, for he spoke French and
German and a smattering of Indian tongues. During his lonely
hours he had studied, for he knew that some day he would be
called upon to administer a vast fortune. . . . He laid the pipe
on the sill, rested his elbows beside it, and dropped his chin
in his hands.
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