to his feet, remembering only his resolution, and afraid lest he
should be too late. He stood watching the approaching
locomotive, his teeth chattering, his lips drawn away from them
in a frightened smile; once or twice he glanced nervously
sidewise, as though he were being watched. When the right moment
came, he jumped. As he fell, the folly of his haste occurred to
him with merciless clearness, the vastness of what he had left
undone. There flashed through his brain, clearer than ever
before, the blue of Adriatic water, the yellow of Algerian sands.
He felt something strike his chest, and that his body was
being thrown swiftly through the air, on and on, immeasurably far
and fast, while his limbs were gently relaxed. Then, because the
picture-making mechanism was crushed, the disturbing visions
flashed into black, and Paul dropped back into the immense design
of things.
Willa Cather, The Troll Garden and Selected Stories
(Series: # )
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