His
mother kissed him with her large soft kiss, and he pressed her hand, a
flush of warmth in his cheeks. He walked away in the cold wind, which
whistled desolately round the corners of the streets, under a sky of
clear steel-blue, alive with stars; he noticed neither their frosty
greeting, nor the crackle of the curled-up plane-leaves, nor the
night-women hurrying in their shabby furs, nor the pinched faces of
vagabonds at street corners. Winter was come! But Soames hastened home,
oblivious; his hands trembled as he took the late letters from the gilt
wire cage into which they had been thrust through the slit in the door.'
None from Irene!
He went into the dining-room; the fire was bright there, his chair drawn
up to it, slippers ready, spirit case, and carven cigarette box on the
table; but after staring at it all for a minute or two, he turned out
the light and went upstairs. There was a fire too in his dressing-room,
but her room was dark and cold. It was into this room that Soames went.
He made a great illumination with candles, and for a long time continued
pacing up and down between the bed and the door. He could not get
used to the thought that she had really left him, and as though still
searching for some message, some reason, some reading of all the mystery
of his married life, he began opening every recess and drawer.
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