"
And at the remembrance of his little son, a wave of sore yearning filled
his own heart. Deep under the occupations and interests of the mind lay
this passionate regret, and at any moment of pause or silence its
"buried life" arose and seized him. But he was a busy politician,
absorbed even in these days of holiday by the questions and problems of
the hour. And Kitty was a delicate woman--with no defence against the
torture of grief.
He thought of those first days after the child's death, when in spite of
the urgency of the doctors it had been impossible to keep the news from
Kitty; of the ghastly effect of it upon nerves and brain already
imperilled by causes only half intelligible; of those sudden flights
from her nurses, when the days of convalescence began, to the child's
room, and, later, to his grave. There was stinging pain in these
recollections. Nor was he, in truth, much reassured by his wife's more
recent state. It was impossible, indeed, that he should give it the same
constant thought as a woman might--or a man of another and more
emotional type. At this moment, perhaps, he had literally no
time for
the subtleties of introspective feeling, even had his temperament
inclined him to them, which was, in truth, not the case.
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