There exists, assuredly, a logic of events, oh, a terrible, irresistible logic of events, but it is careless of the span of any one man's life.

We would like to have each man enjoy the sweets of his own virtues and suffer the lash of his own misdeeds--but it rarely so happens in life.

No, it is the community which lives or dies, is regenerated or marred by the deeds of men.
So Old Toombs continued to live.

So he continued to buy more land, raise more cattle, collect more interest, and the wonderful hedge continued to flaunt its marvels still more notably upon the country road.

To what end?
Who knows?
Who knows?
I saw him afterward from time to time, tried to maintain some sort of friendly relations with him; but it seemed as the years passed that he grew ever lonelier and more bitter, and not only more friendless, but seemingly more incapable of friendliness.