In his ears rang her words, "I know all your feelings and your
passions. And now I have your skin--for the joy of my skin." Yes, she had
loved tigers, and been in sympathy with them always, and here was one whose
joy of life he had ended!
No, he could never kill one more. After this expedition for weeks he was
restless--the incident seemed to have pierced through his carefully
cultivated calm. For days and days, fresh as in the first hours of his
grief, came an infinite sensation of pain--just hideous personal pain.
So time, and his journeys, went on. But no country and no change of scene
could dull Paul's sense of loss, and the great vast terrible finality of
all hope.
The hackneyed phrase would continually ring in his brain of--Never
again--never again! Ah! God! it was true he would hold his beloved
one--never again. And often unavailing rebellion against destiny would rise
up in him, and he would almost go mad and see red once more. Then he would
rush away from civilisation out into the wild.
But these violent emotions were always followed by a heavy, numb lethargy
until some echo or resemblance roused him to suffering again. The scent of
tuberoses caused him anguish unspeakable. One night in New York he was
obliged to leave the opera because a woman he was with wore some in her
dress.
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