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\" His tone was weak and conciliatory. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. At this gate two paths meet. He worked afternoons, when everybody else went to sleep; he worked at night under a heat-giving light, with insects buzzing and dropping about, with a blue haze of tobacco smoke that tried to get out and could not. Wood. Anything that had love in it! The doctor comprehended that he also had his work cut out. Like a river swollen by many currents, it gathered force from the various avenues that poured their streams into it. .
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