When she had gone, he looked at his books and cards, sat down, and tried
to resume his indexing. But his mind played away from it like a restive
horse. It had been two weeks since he last saw Cissie. Two weeks.... His
nerves vibrated like the strings of a pianoforte. He had scarcely
thought of her during the fortnight; but now, having seen her, he found
himself powerless to go on with his work. He pottered a while longer
among the books and cards, but they were meaningless. They appeared an
utter futility. Why index a lot of nonsense? Somehow this recalled his
flare, his adumbration of some great idea connected with young Arkwright
and the old Captain, and the South.
He put his trembling nerves to work, trying to recapture his line of
thought. He sat for ten minutes, following this mental train, then that,
losing one, groping for another. His thoughts were jumpy. They played
about Arkwright, the Captain, Cissie, his mother's death, Tump Pack in
prison, the quarrel between the Persimmon and Jim Pink Staggs. The whole
of Niggertown came rushing down upon him, seizing him in its passion and
dustiness and greasiness, putting to flight all his cultivated white-man
ideas.
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