Chapter 9

           OftenwhenCharleswasoutshetookfromthecupboard,betweenthefoldsofthelinenwhereshehadleftit,thegreensilkcigarcase.Shelookedatit,openedit,andevensmelttheodouroftheliningamixtureofverbenaandtobacco.Whosewasit?TheViscount’s?Perhapsitwasapresentfromhismistress.Ithadbeenembroideredonsomerosewoodframe,aprettylittlething,hiddenfromalleyes,thathadoccupiedmanyhours,andoverwhichhadfallenthesoftcurlsofthepensiveworker.Abreathoflovehadpassedoverthestitchesonthecanvas;eachprickoftheneedlehadfixedthereahopeoramemory,andallthoseinterwoventhreadsofsilkwerebutthecontinuityofthesamesilentpassion.AndthenonemorningtheViscounthadtakenitawaywithhim.Ofwhathadtheyspokenwhenitlayuponthewide-mantelledchimneysbetweenflower-vasesandPompadourclocks?ShewasatTostes;hewasatParisnow,faraway!WhatwasthisParislike?Whatavaguename!Sherepeateditinalowvoice,forthemerepleasureofit;itranginherearslikeagreatcathedralbell;itshonebeforehereyes,evenonthelabelsofherpomade-pots.

           Atnight,whenthecarrierspassedunderherwindowsintheircartssingingthe"Marjolaine,"sheawoke,andlistenedtothenoiseoftheiron-boundwheels,which,astheygainedthecountryroad,wassoondeadenedbythesoil."Theywillbethereto-morrow!"shesaidtoherself.

           Andshefollowedtheminthoughtupanddownthehills,traversingvillages,glidingalongthehighroadsbythelightofthestars.

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Roboto Lora
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