Before sitting down to her letter, the woman paced the floor restlessly,
in nervous agitation. Her face, when she had thrown back the veil,
appeared old and worn, with dark circles under the eyes, and a drawn look
to the weary, downward droop of the lips. As she moved about the room,
nervously fingering the books and trifles upon the table or the mantle,
she seemed beside herself with anxiety. She went to the window to stand
looking out as if hoping for the return of the artist. She went to the
open door of his bedroom, her hands clenched, her limbs trembling, her
face betraying the agony of her mind.
With Louise, she was leaving that evening, at four o'clock, for the
East--with the body of her husband. She could not go without seeing again
the man whom, as Mr. Taine had rightly said, she loved--loved with the
only love of which--because of her environment and life--she was capable.
She still believed in her power over him whose passion she had besieged
with all the lure of her physical beauty, but that which she had seen in
his face as he had watched the girl musician the night of the dinner,
filled her with fear. Presently, in her desperation, when the artist did
not return, she seated herself at the table to put upon paper, as best she
could, the things she had come to say.
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