Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1937-11-14
CONCLUSION

CONCLUSION
HERE is point that the mind can at
tain where no further torture hurts.
Prize fighters know it - griefstricken
souls know it. Stuart March stood for a
moment looking at the girl. Her eyes never
left his They watched him steadily, evenly.
Far below, the river echoed with noises - the
chatter of an outboard motor, long halloo
from far out on the black waters, the cough of
boats siren.
All the anguish of the past days was leaving
the man. 1t dripped from him heavily, like
mud gobbets from boots, thick and viscous.
taking his feeling with it until presently he
was standing up through it, alone again, clean
of it, quite naked of all the intensity that had
been his. There was no talking to her and she
would not speak to him again. He was heavily
aware of that and grateful for it. Now there
naturally = with no drama of going. The
rawness of his mind considered the way of
that as if it were the most important thing in
tine world - but the rawness was so exquisite
in its first shock that he knew if he stood there
a fraction of second more he would strike
her. That knowledge was so definite that he
could hear the flesh impact, sharp in the gar
den silence, feel the back of his hand tear
across her teeth.
He left by the garden gate, quickly, and all
the way down the hill he could hear the echo
of the slam of that gate. He hadn't slammed
it. 1t hadn't even slammed, but the noise of
its closing was period to all he had been five
short minutes before.
At the foot of the hill, panic came in upon
him so sharply that he stopped walking. l
shan't be able to stand this. shant ever be
able to, for there is no living through the next
hours - no bearing them. If could jump
them and go on with tomorrow yes. But
that can't be done. There is the night ahead
the crawling night, and each hour of it step
that can't climb. If could be doped to sleep
through their jeering emptiness. If l could fall
on my face here, and sleep to tomorrow. But
can't have to go through the night and
can't face its awfulness. Sanger's girl and
she sat there smiling while took him apart.
Sanger's girl - and she walked of and left
him at the Crest room. Sangers girl.
There was no lunch in him and no dinner,
so the whiskey he poured in on that emptiness,
waiting for the train to New York. bit with
fulsome authority. He had no strength in his
legs when the train pulled into Grand Central
and he was afraid that he was going to cry,
not for the girl or for himself, but helplessly
from strain and letdown, so he poured in more
whiskey and got his legs back.
Suddenly he knew that he didn't want to go
home. That he couldn't 60 home or 60 any
where to be alone. There were no friends he
could talk to, only the world standing in
circle around him, laughing at him.
What are you laughing att"
Take it easy, Buddy Il amt laffing ="
What do you mean you're not laughing?
Don't tell me you're not laughing"
ok, Mister - no fights in here"
by heaven. he's laughing!"
Sure he's laughing but not at you"
SAY, whatsa matter, Big Boy you
picxin' on little guys? Well, for this little guy
do the fghtin', see?"
mo, don't see."
'What'sa idea sour pussing the place?
You're happy, amt cha? Your girl turn you
down or somepin?"
Smack
One of those businesses, sure, quick and to
the point A flash of lights upside down, sweat
from bodies. the high song of broken glass, the
sharp stab of teeth punching through his lip.