The lights were coming out one after another in the town beneath, and it
was very peaceful and cool in the garden, so that he stepped out on to
the terrace. As he stood there in the darkness, able only to see the
shapes of trees through the fine grey light, he was overcome by a desire
to escape, to have done with this suffering, to forget that Rachel was
ill. He allowed himself to lapse into forgetfulness of everything. As if
a wind that had been raging incessantly suddenly fell asleep, the fret
and strain and anxiety which had been pressing on him passed away.
He seemed to stand in an unvexed space of air, on a little island by
himself; he was free and immune from pain. It did not matter whether
Rachel was well or ill; it did not matter whether they were apart or
together; nothing mattered--nothing mattered. The waves beat on the
shore far away, and the soft wind passed through the branches of the
trees, seeming to encircle him with peace and security, with dark and
nothingness. Surely the world of strife and fret and anxiety was not the
real world, but this was the real world, the world that lay beneath the
superficial world, so that, whatever happened, one was secure. The quiet
and peace seemed to lap his body in a fine cool sheet, soothing every
nerve; his mind seemed once more to expand, and become natural.
But when he had stood thus for a time a noise in the house roused him;
he turned instinctively and went into the drawing-room.
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