He pictured her as, wrapped in her shawl, she wandered about in
dire distress--or with intent gaze reviewing her life and his own,
until both appeared to her to have been hopelessly wasted--or
pondering where she could best hide herself so that she should
suffer no more.
How he loved her! All that had happened had drawn a veil over his
eyes, which was now removed.
Now he was on board the steamer which was bearing him home. The
weather had become mild and summerlike; it had been raining, but
towards evening it began to clear. He would get to Hellebergene in
fine weather, and by moonlight. It grew colder; he spoke to no
one, nor had he eyes for anything about him.
The image of his mother, wrapped in her long shawl--that was all
the company he had. Only his mother! No one but his mother!
Suppose the telegram had but frightened her the more--that to see
HIM now appeared the worst that could happen. To read such a
crushing doom for her whole life, and that from him! She was not
so constituted that it could be cancelled by his asking
forgiveness and returning to her. On the contrary, it would
precipitate the worst, it must do so.
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