No ornament was amiss, no line
or curve of her figure other than perfectly graceful. Yet even
the fire's glow which she had seemed to dread brought no flush of
colour to her cheeks. Her appearance of complete lifelessness
remained. It was as though some sort of crust had formed about
her being, a condition which her very physical perfection seemed
to render the more incomprehensible.
"You are surprised to see me here living with my husband, after
what I told you yesterday afternoon?" she said calmly, breaking
at last the silence which had reigned between them.
"I am," he admitted.
"It seems unnatural to you, I suppose?"
"Entirely."
"You still believe all that I told you?"
"I must."
She looked at the door and raised her head a little, as though
either listening or adjudging the time before her husband would
return. Then she glanced across at him once more.
"Hatred," she said, "does not always drive away. Sometimes it
attracts. Sometimes the person who hates can scarcely bear the
other out of his sight. That is where hate and love are somewhat
alike."
The room was warm but Francis was conscious of shivering. She
raised her finger warningly. It seemed typical of the woman,
somehow, that the message could not be conveyed by any glance or
gesture.
Pages:
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42