From then until four in the afternoon there was nothing to do—the whole island went to sleep. He dragged it out, and perceiving, in spite of the decayed frame, that it was the body of Sir Rowland Trenchard, commanded his attendants to convey it up stairs—an order which was promptly obeyed. But he was now too deeply moved to trace a certain unsatisfactoriness to its source in a mixture of metaphors. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. But underneath this tolerance there is always the vague hope that your manhood will someday reassert itself.
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