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The
message
was
given
,
and
Troy
,
wrapped
up
to
his
eyes
as
we
have
seen
him
,
stood
in
the
doorway
.
There
was
an
unearthly
silence
,
all
looking
towards
the
newcomer
.
Those
who
had
just
learnt
that
he
was
in
the
neighbourhood
recognized
him
instantly
;
those
who
did
not
were
perplexed
.
Nobody
noted
Bathsheba
.
She
was
leaning
on
the
stairs
.
Her
brow
had
heavily
contracted
;
her
whole
face
was
pallid
,
her
lips
apart
,
her
eyes
rigidly
staring
at
their
visitor
.
Boldwood
was
among
those
who
did
not
notice
that
he
was
Troy
.
"
Come
in
,
come
in
!
"
he
repeated
,
cheerfully
,
"
and
drain
a
Christmas
beaker
with
us
,
stranger
!
"
Troy
next
advanced
into
the
middle
of
the
room
,
took
off
his
cap
,
turned
down
his
coat
-
collar
,
and
looked
Boldwood
in
the
face
.
Even
then
Boldwood
did
not
recognize
that
the
impersonator
of
Heaven
’
s
persistent
irony
towards
him
,
who
had
once
before
broken
in
upon
his
bliss
,
scourged
him
,
and
snatched
his
delight
away
,
had
come
to
do
these
things
a
second
time
.
Troy
began
to
laugh
a
mechanical
laugh
:
Boldwood
recognized
him
now
.
Troy
turned
to
Bathsheba
.
The
poor
girl
’
s
wretchedness
at
this
time
was
beyond
all
fancy
or
narration
.
She
had
sunk
down
on
the
lowest
stair
;
and
there
she
sat
,
her
mouth
blue
and
dry
,
and
her
dark
eyes
fixed
vacantly
upon
him
,
as
if
she
wondered
whether
it
were
not
all
a
terrible
illusion
.
Then
Troy
spoke
.
"
Bathsheba
,
I
come
here
for
you
!
"
She
made
no
reply
.
"
Come
home
with
me
:
come
!
"
Bathsheba
moved
her
feet
a
little
,
but
did
not
rise
.
Troy
went
across
to
her
.
