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PinkMonkey.com Digital Library-Ethan Frome by Edith Wharton


10

but there was nothing unfriendly in his silence. I simply felt that he
lived in a depth of moral isolation too remote for casual access, and
I had the sense that his loneliness was not merely the result of his
personal plight, tragic as I guessed that to be, but had in it, as
Harmon Gow had hinted, the profound accumulated cold of many
Starkfield winters.

Only once or twice was the distance between us bridged for a
moment; and the glimpses thus gained confirmed my desire to
know more. Once I happened to speak of an engineering job I had
been on the previous year in Florida, and of the contrast between
the winter landscape about us and that in which I had found
myself the year before; and to my surprise Frome said suddenly:
“Yes: I was down there once, and for a good while afterward I
could call up the sight of it in winter.

But now it’s all snowed under.” He said no more, and I had to
guess the rest from the inflection of his voice and his sharp relapse
into silence.

Another day, on getting into my train at the Flats, I missed a
volume of popular science-I think it was on some recent
discoveries in bio-chemistry-which I had carried with me to read
on the way. I thought no more about it till I got into the sleigh
again that evening, and saw the book in Frome’s hand.

“I found it after you were gone,” he said.
I put the volume into my pocket and we dropped back into our
usual silence; but as we began to crawl up the long hill from
Corbury Flats to the Starkfield ridge I became aware in the dusk
that he had turned his face to mine.

“There are things in that book that I didn’t know the first word
about,” he said.

I wondered less at his words than at the queer note of resentment
in his voice.

He was evidently surprised and slightly aggrieved at his own
ignorance.

“Does that sort of thing interest you?” I asked.
“It used to.” “There are one or two rather new things in the book:
there have been some big strides lately in that particular line of
research.” I waited a moment for an answer that did not come; then
I said: “If you’d like to look the book through I’d be glad to leave it
with you.” He hesitated, and I had the impression that he felt
himself about to yield to a stealing tide of inertia; then, “Thank
you-I’ll take it,” he answered shortly.

I hoped that this incident might set up some more direct
communication between us. Frome was so simple and
straightforward that I was sure his curiosity about the book was
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