She always sat with her back to the
south window, so that her head and shoulders appeared somewhat
indistinct against the outer world, a background of flower-beds and
green grass and sky, covered with the criss-cross of the leaded
lozenge panes and the watery shimmer of the glass. The outline of her
head was indicated by a little line of light that threaded her hair
and tipped the curve of her small ears. He knew every change of her
face, from its serene, faint-tinted morning look, to its flower-like
pallor in the dusk. He knew only too well its look under the
lamp-light after a hard day's work; the look that came with a slight
blurring of its soft contours, and a drooping of tired eyelids over
pathetic eyes. He saw what Jewdwine had failed to see, that Lucia was
not strong.
Six days, and three days before that, nine days in all; and it was as
if he had known that face all his life; he could not conceive a time
when he had not known it. As for the things he had known, horrible,
curious and incredible things, such as Rickman's, Mrs. Downey's, St.
Pancras Church, and the editor of _The Museion_ (whose last letter he
had left unanswered), they belonged to an infinitely remote and
unimaginable past. It seemed the entirely obvious and natural thing
that he should be sitting there alone with Lucia Harden. He was never
very far from her. The east window looked across the courtyard to the
window of her drawing-room; he could see her there, sitting in the
lamp-light; he could hear the music that she made.
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