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Her
first
thought
was
:
“
He
’
s
going
too
in
a
few
hours
—
I
needn
’
t
see
him
again
before
he
leaves
.
.
.
”
At
that
moment
the
possibility
of
having
to
look
in
Darrow
’
s
face
and
hear
him
speak
seemed
to
her
more
unendurable
than
anything
else
she
could
imagine
.
Then
,
on
the
next
wave
of
feeling
,
came
the
desire
to
confront
him
at
once
and
wring
from
him
she
knew
not
what
:
avowal
,
denial
,
justification
,
anything
that
should
open
some
channel
of
escape
to
the
flood
of
her
pent
-
up
anguish
.
She
had
told
Owen
she
was
tired
,
and
this
seemed
a
sufficient
reason
for
remaining
upstairs
when
the
motor
came
to
the
door
and
Miss
Painter
and
Sophy
Viner
were
borne
off
in
it
;
sufficient
also
for
sending
word
to
Madame
de
Chantelle
that
she
would
not
come
down
till
after
luncheon
.
Having
despatched
her
maid
with
this
message
,
she
lay
down
on
her
sofa
and
stared
before
her
into
darkness
.
.
.
She
had
been
unhappy
before
,
and
the
vision
of
old
miseries
flocked
like
hungry
ghosts
about
her
fresh
pain
:
she
recalled
her
youthful
disappointment
,
the
failure
of
her
marriage
,
the
wasted
years
that
followed
;
but
those
were
negative
sorrows
,
denials
and
postponements
of
life
.
She
seemed
in
no
way
related
to
their
shadowy
victim
,
she
who
was
stretched
on
this
fiery
rack
of
the
irreparable
.
She
had
suffered
before
—
yes
,
but
lucidly
,
reflectively
,
elegiacally
:
now
she
was
suffering
as
a
hurt
animal
must
,
blindly
,
furiously
,
with
the
single
fierce
animal
longing
that
the
awful
pain
should
stop
.
.
.
She
heard
her
maid
knock
,
and
she
hid
her
face
and
made
no
answer
.
The
knocking
continued
,
and
the
discipline
of
habit
at
length
made
her
lift
her
head
,
compose
her
face
and
hold
out
her
hand
to
the
note
the
woman
brought
her
.
It
was
a
word
from
Darrow
—
“
May
I
see
you
?
”
—
and
she
said
at
once
,
in
a
voice
that
sounded
thin
and
empty
:
“
Ask
Mr
.
Darrow
to
come
up
.
”
The
maid
enquired
if
she
wished
to
have
her
hair
smoothed
first
,
and
she
answered
that
it
didn
’
t
matter
;
but
when
the
door
had
closed
,
the
instinct
of
pride
drew
her
to
her
feet
and
she
looked
at
herself
in
the
glass
above
the
mantelpiece
and
passed
her
hands
over
her
hair
.
Her
eyes
were
burning
and
her
face
looked
tired
and
thinner
;
otherwise
she
could
see
no
change
in
her
appearance
,
and
she
wondered
that
at
such
a
moment
her
body
should
seem
as
unrelated
to
the
self
that
writhed
within
her
as
if
it
had
been
a
statue
or
a
picture
.
The
maid
reopened
the
door
to
show
in
Darrow
,
and
he
paused
a
moment
on
the
threshold
,
as
if
waiting
for
Anna
to
speak
.
He
was
extremely
pale
,
but
he
looked
neither
ashamed
nor
uncertain
,
and
she
said
to
herself
,
with
a
perverse
thrill
of
appreciation
:
“
He
’
s
as
proud
as
I
am
.
”
Aloud
she
asked
:
“
You
wanted
to
see
me
?
”
“
Naturally
,
”
he
replied
in
a
grave
voice
.
“
Don
’
t
!
It
’
s
useless
.
I
know
everything
.
Nothing
you
can
say
will
help
.
”
