Garrison's Finish : a romance of the race course by William Blair Morton Ferguson
page 128 of 173 (73%)
page 128 of 173 (73%)
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That last scene with Sue had uprooted every fiber of his being. He
writhed when he thought of it. But one thought possessed him. To get away, get away, get away; out of it all; anyhow, anywhere. He was like a raw recruit who has been lying on the firing-line, suffering the agonies of apprehension, of imagination; experiencing the proximity of death in cold blood, without the heat of action to render him oblivious. Garrison had been on the firing-line for so long that his nerve was frayed to ribbons. Now the blow had fallen at last. The exposure had come, and a fierce frenzy possessed him to complete the work begun. He craved physical combat. And when he thought of Sue he felt like a murderer fleeing from the scene of his crime; striving, with distance, to blot out the memory of his victim. That was all he thought of. That, and to get away--to flee from himself. Afterward, analysis of actions would come. At present, only action; only action. It was five miles to the Cottonton depot, reached by a road that branched off from the Logan Pike about half a mile above the spot where Waterbury had been thrown. He remembered that there was a through train at ten-fifteen. He would have time if he rode hard. With head bowed, shoulders hunched, he bent over the gelding. He had no recollection of that ride. But the long, weary journey North was one he had full recollection of. He was forced to remain partially inactive, though he paced from smoking to observation-car time and time again. He could not remain still. The first great fury of the storm had passed. It had swept him up, weak and nerveless, on the beach of retrospect; among the wreck of past hopes; |
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