But not here. The sight of you
sitting in the middle of my life, between the sewing-machine and
the type-writer, is getting on my nerves. Let us go into the
drawing-room. There is an atmosphere of calm there--" her voice
quavered in a queer little choke--"of sabbatical calm."
I slid quickly from the table and put my arm round her waist.
"Tell me, Judith, what is amiss with you."
She broke away from me roughly, thrusting me back.
"Nothing. A woman's nothing, if you understand what that means.
Come into the drawing-room."
I opened the door; she passed out and I followed her along the
passage. She preceded me into the drawing-room, and I stayed for
a moment to close the door, fumbling with the handle which has
been loose for some months. When I turned and had made a couple
of steps forward, I halted involuntarily under the shock of a
considerable surprise.
We were not alone. Standing on the hearth-rug, his hands behind
his back, his brows bent on me benevolently was a man in clerical
attire. He looked ostentatiously, exaggeratedly clerical.
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