He was at the House; something quite
ordinary was keeping him. It was absurd to be anxious! She would have to
get used to this now. To be a drag on him would be dreadful. Sooner than
that she would rather--yes--rather he never came back! And she took up
her book, determined to read quietly till he came. But the moment
she sat down her fears returned with redoubled force-the cold sickly
horrible feeling of uncertainty, of the knowledge that she could do
nothing but wait till she was relieved by something over which she had
no control. And in the superstition that to stay there in the window
where she could see him come, was keeping him from her, she went into
her bedroom. From there she could watch the sunset clouds wine-dark over
the river. A little talking wind shivered along the houses; the dusk
began creeping in. She would not turn on the light, unwilling to
admit that it was really getting late, but began to change her dress,
lingering desperately over every little detail of her toilette, deriving
therefrom a faint, mysterious comfort, trying to make herself feel
beautiful. From sheer dread of going back before he came, she let her
hair fall, though it was quite smooth and tidy, and began brushing
it. Suddenly she thought with horror of her efforts at adornment--by
specially preparing for him, she must seem presumptuous to Fate.
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