He watched him anxiously while Arthur drank his
coffee. The change in him was extraordinary; there was a cadaverous
exhaustion about his face, and his eyes were sunken in their sockets. But
what alarmed the good doctor most was that Arthur's personality seemed
thoroughly thrown out of gear. All that he had endured during these nine
months had robbed him of the strength of purpose, the matter-of-fact
sureness, which had distinguished him. He was now unbalanced and
neurotic.
Arthur did not speak. With his eyes fixed moodily on the ground, he
wondered how much he could bring himself to tell them. It revolted him
to disclose his inmost thoughts, yet he was come to the end of his tether
and needed the doctor's advice. He found himself obliged to deal with
circumstances that might have existed in a world of nightmare, and he
was driven at last to take advantage of his friend's peculiar knowledge.
Returning to London after Margaret's flight, Arthur Burdon had thrown
himself again into the work which for so long had been his only solace.
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