When she had finished reading she looked up at me. No
play of her eyes now; but she must have caught some expression in my face,
for she looked at me still. Did she feel my presence as I felt hers? Those
two heavy eyes raised towards mine and held there were loaded to the brim
with love. She could not be responsible for her actions now. There was a
pathological depth in her glance, an influence from far within, from the
life she bore under her heart. Her breath came heavily, her face flushed
dark all over, then she swung round and walked slowly away.
There I stood, with the card in my hand. Had she given it to me? Had I
taken it?
"Your card," I said. "Shall I...."
She held out her hand without looking round, and walked on.
This little episode occupied my mind a great deal for some days. Ought I
to have gone after her when she walked away? Oh, I might have tried, might
have made the attempt--her door was not far off. Pathological? But what
had she brought me the card for at all? She could have told me by word of
mouth what there was to say.
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