He did not look cross. He did not have the
gloom in his face which had been so fixed an expression for the last
month. But he looked as a man might look who knew he had but a few hours
to live, yet to whom death had no terror.
"I am giving up," Peter thought, "everything that has been my true life
till now. My profession, my friends, my chance to help others, my books,
and my quiet. I shall be misunderstood, reviled and hated. Everything I
do will be distorted for partisan purposes. Friends will misjudge.
Enemies will become the more bitter. I give up fifty thousand dollars a
year in order to become a slave, with toadies, trappers, lobbyists and
favor-seekers as my daily quota of humanity. I even sacrifice the larger
part of my power."
So ran Peter's thoughts, and they were the thoughts of a man who had not
worked seventeen years in politics for nothing. He saw alienation of
friends, income, peace, and independence, and the only return a mere
title, which to him meant a loss, rather than a gain of power.
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