They stood beside her.
Robert knew too much to struggle, but Ricardo's voice went on, saying the
same things over and over again, pleading.
"Do something--do something. Wake her, Robert, dear boy, for God's sake.
What is the use of all your studying if you can't even wake her?"
"It's no use," he said.
"She was sitting there--I was to have read her the last chapter--she was
so quiet--asleep she seemed---for an hour--I sat--not moving--then I was
afraid!"
Robert nodded.
She had laid his supper for him. It was much too early for her to have
laid it. She had spread muslin over the bread and cheese. And then she
had sat down quietly in her chair by the window and waited. (How long
had she waited there? Many years perhaps. It had been very lonely for
her.) Her head was thrown back a little, and her closed eyes lifted to
the light that came over the stable roofs. The grey hair hung in wisps
about the transparent face--very still, as though the air had died too.
She had changed profoundly, indefinably. She looked younger, and there
was a new serenity about the faintly opened mouth. Her hands lay
peacefully on the little shabby bag. Her little feet in the ill-fitting
shoes just reached the ground. In a way it was all so familiar. And yet
he felt that if he touched her he would find out that this was not
Christine at all. This was something that had belonged to her--as
poignant, as heart-rending as a dress that she had worn.
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