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 Friday night, not waiting until Sunday. He argued with himself that he wrote to acknowledge quince jelly just received and that he naturally had mentioned the case; but when the letter was mailed, he knew that he had attained a satisfaction from again condemning the Royle girl. It was undeniable to himself—as undeniable as the fact that, after he had turned out his reading lamp beside his bed, he switched on the light again to examine, once more, a very small crescent mark on his wrist.

Not feeling sleepy, he set to arranging to-morrow's work in his mind and soon discovered that he was devising and inventing plausible excuses either for summoning that Royle girl to his office or for seeking her, when he had no real reason at all. But now it was four days since he had seen her and, if he did nothing about it, he might not see her again until the time of the trial.

Calvin Clarke brought himself to a realization of his occupation and reached for a book; but, although he forced himself to read, he failed utterly to banish the extraordinary mood which was come upon him.

He arose and walked about his room. "This is loneliness," he said to himself, with a puzzled surprise. "I suppose this is loneliness," he repeated with interested rebuke of this unique and discreditable sensation. For loneliness was, of course, a weakness; it was a lack of self-sufficiency, a dependence upon others.

Calvin Clarke was very used to being alone; in fact, he had lived all his life essentially alone, having been born the only child of his generation in the cool, severe, perfectly ordered old homestead beside the Merrimac. His mother's arms, when she had held him to her breast, had clasped him constrainedly; self-control had come in his suckling.

His earliest memories were of himself, not lonely, but alone; his image of himself in childhood was of awaken-