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after generation."
His monotone, ended abruptly, resumed after a vast interval.
"
There were ninety thousand years of stone age. A Denton somewhere in
all those years. Apostolic succession. The grace of going through. Let
me see! Ninety--nine hundred--three nines, twenty-seven--three
thousand generations of men!--men more or less. And each fought, and
was bruised, and shamed, and somehow held his own--going through with
it--passing it on.... And thousands more to come perhaps--thousands!
"Passing it on. I wonder if they will thank us."
His voice assumed an argumentative note. "If one could find something
definite ... If one could say, 'This is why--this is why it goes
on....'"
He became still, and Elizabeth's eyes slowly separated him from the
darkness until at last she could see how he sat with his head resting on
his hand. A sense of the enormous remoteness of their minds came to her;
that dim suggestion of another being seemed to her a figure of their
mutual understanding. What could he be thinking now? What might he not
say next? Another age seemed to elapse before he sighed and whispered:
"No. I don't understand it. No!" Then a long interval, and he repeated
this. But the second time it had the tone almost of a solution.
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