He felt he
could not stand much longer his own inactivity and his ignorance of
what Maggie was doing and what was happening to her. He could not
remain in this sanctuary pulling strings, and very long and fragile
strings, and strings which might be the mistaken ones, for any much
greater period. He felt that he simply had to walk out of this
splendid safety, back into the dangers from which he had fled, where
he might at least have the possible advantage of being in the very
midst of Maggie's affairs and fight for her more openly and have a
more direct influence upon her.
He knew that, sooner or later, he was going to throw caution aside and
appear suddenly among his enemies, unless something of a definite
character developed. But for these slow, irritating days he held
himself in check with difficulty, hoping that things might come to
him, that he would not have to go forth to them.
He had brought Hunt's portrait of Maggie to Cedar Crest in the bottom
of his trunk, and kept it locked in his chiffonier. During these days,
more frequently than before, he would take out the portrait and in the
security of his locked room would gaze long at that keen-visioned
portrayal of her many characters. No doubt of it: there was a possible
splendid woman there! And no doubt of it: he loved that woman utterly!
During these days of his ignorance, while Maggie was struggling in the
darkness of her unexplored being, Larry drove himself grimly at the
business to which under happier circumstances he would have gone under
the irresistible suasion of pure joy.
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