I
had wrestled with any who came, fought with any who asked it, matched
with any man on any terms he named. Conflict was in my blood, and always
I had fought blithely. But never with sweat like this on my forehead!
Never with fear catching at my heart! Never with the agony of
self-reproach assailing me! Now, to-night, I was meeting the strongest
antagonist of all my life, the only one I had ever feared.
It was none other than I myself, that other John Cowles, young man, and
now loose in the vast, free, garden of living.
Yet I fought with myself. I tried to banish her face from my heart--with
all my might, and all my conscience, and all my remaining principles, I
did try. I called up to mind my promises, my duties, my honor. But none
of these would put her face away. I tried to forget the softness of her
voice, the fragrance of her hair, the sweetness of her body once held in
my arms, all the vague charm of woman, the enigma, the sphinx, the
mystery-magnet of the world, the charm that has no analysis, that knows
no formula; but I could not forget. A rage filled me against all the
other men in the world. I have said I would set down the truth. The
truth is that I longed to rise and roar in my throat, challenging all
the other men in the world.
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