Amid his wavy hair a line of silver was now and then
discernible, and Edith thought how much faster he had grown old
than Richard Harrington. And well be might, for Richard, in his
blindness was happier far than Arthur St. Claire, blessed with
health, and riches, and eyesight, and youth. He had no secret
eating to his very heart's core, and with every succeeding year
magnifying itself into a greater evil than it really was, as an
error concealed is sure to do. Besides that, Richard had Edith,
while Arthur, alas, poor Arthur, he had worse than nothing; and as
he looked across the hearth to where Edith sat, he ceased to
wonder that one who for eight years had basked in the sunshine of
her presence, should be as young, as vigorous and happy as Richard
had appeared to him. But he must not think of this. He professed
to be a woman-hater, he who, in his early boyhood, had counted his
conquests by scores; and even if he were not, beautiful Edith
Hastings could never be aught to him; and he must not suffer
himself for a single moment to think HOW beautiful she was, still
he could not help looking at her, and not a movement of her hand
or a bund of her head escaped him.
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