He was almost ashamed to confess how deeply
interested he was in the sanatorium. Recalling at times the loneliness
and weariness of William Truedale's days--picturing the sad night when
he had, as Lynda put it, opened the door himself, to release and
hope--Conning sought to ease the way for others and so fill the waiting
hours that less opportunity was left for melancholy thought. He
introduced amusements and pastimes in the hospital, often shared them
himself, and still attended to the other business that William
Truedale's affairs involved.
The men who had been appointed to direct and control these interests
eventually let the reins fall into the hands eager to grasp them and, in
the endless labour and sense of usefulness, Conning learned to know
content and comparative peace. He grew to look upon his present life as
a kind of belated reparation. He was not depressed; with surprising
adaptability he accepted what was inevitable and, while reserving, in
the personal sense, his past for private hours, he managed to construct
a philosophy and cheerfulness that carried him well on the tide of
events.
It was something of a shock to him one evening, nearly three years after
his visit to Pine Cone, to find himself looking at Lynda Kendall as if
he had never seen her before.
She was going out with Brace and was in evening dress.
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