Explore "The Garden of Resurrection" by E. Temple Thurston on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
I can bear no longer these futile speculations of my mind. For months past I have tried to keep them under subjection, but it is impossible to do so any more. I must have word of Clarissa. Is she happy? Have I misjudged that young man? Perhaps that evening when I saw him in the restaurant was only a momentary lapse of conduct. Maybe I have done him an injury and she is happy after all.
But no matter how often I put these questions to myself, they return again unanswered. I have an obstinate belief that she could not be happy with him. Sometimes I think it is this uncertainty about Clarissa which is inducing in me a mood, a conviction -- the conviction that I have about run the length of my tether and there is but little left for me but to snap it and have done with the business altogether.