He was amazed to find that he had managed it so well. For, it must be
confessed, Mr. Force's habitual equanimity had undergone a strain that
came so near to resulting in a collapse that only a miracle--(it may
have taken the form of stupefaction, or a kindly paralysis)--only a
miracle could have kept him from betraying the one great secret of his
life.
Ordinarily, he would have put off calling on the Bingles for a month
or six weeks, being that scornful of social amenities; but he could
hardly wait for the approach of sunrise to be on his way to Seafood on
this brilliant Christmas morning. It was not a brilliant, shimmering
day for him, however. He saw nothing beautiful in the steel-blue sky:
to him it was a drab, unlovely pall. He saw no beauty in the snow-clad
foliage, no splendour in the bejewelled tree-tops, no purity in the
veil of white that lay upon the face of the earth. He saw only
himself, and he was a drear, bleak thing as viewed introspectively.
Nor is it to be taken for granted that Mr. Bingle slept well on this
night before Christmas.
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