She was not a nice woman, or a good one, and she had, from her
birth, accepted her place in her world with such finality that her
desires could not, at any time, have been of an elevated nature.
If he had raised a haughty hand and beckoned to her, she would have
followed him like a dog under any conditions he chose to impose.
But he did not raise his hand, and never would, because she had no
attractions whatsoever. And this she knew, so smothered her sobs
in her bed at night or lay awake, fevered with anticipation when
there was a vague chance that he might need her for some reason
and command her presence in some deserted park or country road
or cheap hotel, where she could take rooms for the night as if
she were a passing visitor to London.
One night--she had taken cheap lodgings for a week in a side street,
in obedience to orders--he came in about nine o'clock dressed in
a manner whose object was to dull the effect of his grandeur and
cause him to look as much like an ordinary Englishman as possible.
But, when the door was closed and he stood alone in the room
with her, she saw, with the blissful pangs of an abjectly adoring
woman, that he automatically resumed his magnificence of bearing.
His badly fitting overcoat removed, he stood erect and drawn to
his full height, so dominating the small place and her idolatrously
cringing being that her heart quaked within her.
Pages:
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290