With swift noiseless movements she went on building up
the dying fire. The wood crackled; a little flame leapt up, and Mr.
Rickman opened his eyes. For a moment he kept them open, fixed in
sleepy wonder on the woman who knelt beside him by the hearth. He was
obscurely aware that it was Lucia Harden, but his wonder was free from
the more vivid and disturbing element of surprise; for he had been
dreaming about her and was still under the enchantment of his dream.
Never had she seemed more beautiful to him.
Her head was bowed, her face turned from him and shaded by her hair;
and with her hands she tended a dying flame. Her shawl had slipped
from her shoulders, and he saw the delicate curve of her body as she
knelt; it was overlaid by her hair that fell to her hips in a loose
flat braid. He closed his eyes again, feigning abysmal sleep. He kept
guard over his breath, over his eyelids, lest a tremor should startle
her into shame-faced flight. Yet he knew that she had risen and that
her face was set towards him; that she turned from him and then paused
in her going; that she looked at the fire again to make sure of its
burning, and at him to make sure of his sleep (so intently that she
never noticed the white thing which had slipped from her shoulders as
she stood upright); that she stooped to draw his coat more closely
over him. He heard the flowing of her gown, and saw without seeing her
feet shining as she went from him.
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