maddened and abandoned

Sometimes, lying in bed at night trying to sleep, or even (he admitted guiltily to himself) standing in church singing or silent, with hands raised in an act of surrender to God, a picture of her face, or the echo of her voice, or the sound of her laugh, wild and abandoned, would catch him off-guard and he would be lost to a rushing of thoughts or a reverberation of emotion that pushed sleep away to some distant place, or pulled him back sharply from the edge of the precipice he had been about to leap from, to glide on the winds of awe and wonder, instead being held captive by someone who didn’t even want to have any part in this whole thing.  It was maddening.

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