'
He held her hand, but he did not press it. His voice had none of the old
passionate ardour, it was submissive, disconsolate, heart-broken, full
of infinite weariness. And Maria was so blinded by her compassion that
she did not draw away her hand, but let it lie in his, abandoning
herself for a moment to the unutterable rapture of that light contact--a
rapture so subtle as hardly to have any physical origin--as if some
magnetic fluid, issuing from her heart, diffused itself through her arm
to her fingers and there flowed forth in a wave of ineffable sweetness.
When Andrea ceased speaking, certain words of his, uttered on that
memorable morning in the park and revived by the recent sound of his
voice, returned to her memory--'Your mere presence suffices to
intoxicate me--I feel it flowing through my veins like blood, flooding
my soul with nameless emotion----'
There was an interval of silence. From time to time, a gust of wind
shook the window-panes and bore fitfully with it the distant roar of the
city and the rumbling of carriage wheels. The light was cold and limpid
as spring water; shadows were gathering thickly in the corners of the
room and in the folds of the Oriental curtains; from pieces of
furniture, here and there, came gleams of ivory and mother-of-pearl; a
great gilded Buddha shone out of the background under a tall palm.
Pages:
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309