The sight of her figure, huddled
in the fur, was enough.
He knew then for certain that Bosinney had been her lover; knew that she
had seen the report of his death--perhaps, like himself, had bought a
paper at the draughty corner of a street, and read it.
She had come back then of her own accord, to the cage she had pined to
be free of--and taking in all the tremendous significance of this, he
longed to cry: "Take your hated body, that I love, out of my house! Take
away that pitiful white face, so cruel and soft--before I crush it. Get
out of my sight; never let me see you again!"
And, at those unspoken words, he seemed to see her rise and move
away, like a woman in a terrible dream, from which she was fighting to
awake--rise and go out into the dark and cold, without a thought of him,
without so much as the knowledge of his presence.
Then he cried, contradicting what he had not yet spoken, "No; stay
there!" And turning away from her, he sat down in his accustomed chair
on the other side of the hearth.
They sat in silence.
And Soames thought: 'Why is all this? Why should I suffer so? What have
I done? It is not my fault!'
Again he looked at her, huddled like a bird that is shot and dying,
whose poor breast you see panting as the air is taken from it, whose
poor eyes look at you who have shot it, with a slow, soft, unseeing
look, taking farewell of all that is good--of the sun, and the air, and
its mate.
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