He sat down and meditated
again, but came to no conclusion, for no conclusion was possible.
The next evening, after they had sat dumb for some moments, he said,
"My dear; you don't seem well."
"I am not well, as you know. You yourself don't seem well."
He felt suddenly as if he would have liked to throw himself on his
knees before her, and to have it all out with her; to say to her all
he had said to himself; to expose all his misery to her; to try to
find out whether she still loved him; to break or thaw the shell of
ice which seemed to have frozen round her. But he could not do it.
He was on the point of doing it, when he looked at her face, and
there was something in it which stopped him. No such confidence was
possible, and he went back into himself again.
"Shall I read to you?"
"Yes, if you like."
"What shall I read?
"I don't care; anything you please."
"Shall it be Cook's Voyages?"
"I have just said I really do not care."
He took down the Cook's Voyages; but after about ten minutes he could
not go on and he put it back in its place.
"Caillaud's trial is to take place next week," he observed after a
long pause.
"Horrible man!" she exclaimed, with a sudden increase of energy.
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