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 had even been patient during these last few awful months of futility and strife.

Byron began to comprehend vaguely how superficial his writing must have appeared. He had never suffered before, never really lived; certainly he had never had any self-understanding. Probably Durwood had been right. At any rate, he was now capable of the realization that Durwood had not intended to patronize him.

Well, it was too late. Too late to seek out the Sumners or their friends. Too late to ask Mary to forgive him. Whatever will become of me? he moaned.

This mood of self-reproach was not permanent. Fierce anger returned to control his spirit. How he loathed this woman who had made a fool of him! How he hated his successor in her affections! Governed by his rage, he clutched his revolver and cried aloud to the four walls of his room in which, like a dying animal, he had shut himself: I'll kill her! I'll kill him! I'll kill them both! But the revolver dropped from his relaxed fingers to the table, and his head followed. Weak, that's what he was, weak. God! he demanded imploringly, why haven't I the strength to go through with it?

Sensing his desperation, perhaps, Mrs. Fox was more than ordinarily kind. Discovering that he would not eat in the kitchen, she sought him out and tempted him with a tray of southern delicacies—she was a good cook. To please