The old man died but a few months later, his spirit
broken, his body racked by poison.
And so he found himself at twenty-nine, his implacable charge taking
him to the heights of his profession, swift and sure as an arrow's
flight. He had no illusions; he had no dreams; and he could not
conceive of anything that would alter his life's course in the least.
He believed he knew and understood all that the world held for a man,
and did not hold. He knew what he wanted, and he was willing to pay
the price.
Yet it was at the very heart of this emotional wasteland that the one
kindness, the one exception of his life had somehow found him. He had
just returned from southern Africa, where forces under his command had
crushed a native uprising before it could gather impetus and support.
In honor of this he had been decorated, and invited to a special
reception held for him at the summer estates of the Earl of Sussex.
Arriving in little-used dress uniform, making no attempt to hide his
disdain for this aristocratic gathering and all that it implied, he
had seemed, as he often did in society, a poorly disguised wolf among
dogs.
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