Sanderson's thoughts were bitter. He felt the constricting influence
of his enemies; he was like the herd of cattle that his men had rounded
up that day, for little by little Silverthorn, Dale, and Maison were
cutting down his area of freedom and of action, were hampering him on
all sides, and driving him to a point where he would discover
resistance to be practically useless.
He had thought in the beginning that he could devise some way to escape
the meshes of the net that was being thrown around him, but he was
beginning to realize that he had underestimated the power and the
resources of his enemies.
Maison and Silverthorn he knew were mere tentacles of the capital they
represented; it was their business to reach out, searching for victims,
in order to draw them in and drain from them the last vestige of wealth.
And Sanderson had no doubt that they did that work impersonally and
without feeling, not caring, and perhaps not understanding the tortures
of a system--of a soulless organization seeking only financial gain.
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