His
thoughts were all centred round Markovitch. You must remember that for a
long time now he had considered himself Markovitch's protector. This
sense of his protection had developed in him an affection for the man
that he would not otherwise have felt. He did not, of course, know of
any of Markovitch's deepest troubles. He could only guess at his
relations with Vera, and he did not understand the passionate importance
that he attached to his Russian idea. But he knew enough to be aware of
his childishness, his simplicity, his _naivete_, and his essential
goodness. "He's an awfully decent sort, really," he used to say in a
kind of apologetic defence. The very fact of Semyonov's strength made
his brutality seem now the more revolting. "Like hitting a fellow half
your size"....
He saw that things in that flat were approaching a climax, and he knew
enough now of Russian impetuosity to realise that climaxes in that
country are, very often, no ordinary affairs. It was just as though
there were an evil smell in the flat, he explained to me. "It seemed to
hang over everything. Things looked the same and yet they weren't the
same at all.
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