Flinging off his fur coat,
he hurried to the drawing-room.
The curtains were drawn for the night, a bright fire of cedar-logs
burned in the grate, and by its light he saw Irene sitting in her usual
corner on the sofa. He shut the door softly, and went towards her. She
did not move, and did not seem to see him.
"So you've come back?" he said. "Why are you sitting here in the dark?"
Then he caught sight of her face, so white and motionless that it seemed
as though the blood must have stopped flowing in her veins; and her
eyes, that looked enormous, like the great, wide, startled brown eyes of
an owl.
Huddled in her grey fur against the sofa cushions, she had a strange
resemblance to a captive owl, bunched fir its soft feathers against the
wires of a cage. The supple erectness of her figure was gone, as though
she had been broken by cruel exercise; as though there were no longer
any reason for being beautiful, and supple, and erect.
"So you've come back," he repeated.
She never looked up, and never spoke, the firelight playing over her
motionless figure.
Suddenly she tried to rise, but he prevented her; it was then that he
understood.
She had come back like an animal wounded to death, not knowing where to
turn, not knowing what she was doing.
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