Only when she was out-of-doors did she fully realize the strangeness
of the night. The heat of it was flaccid. The island seemed to swim in
a fatigued and breathless atmosphere. The mist that hung about it was
like the mist in a vapor-bath.
Below the vague sea lay a thing exhausted, motionless, perhaps
fainting in the dark. And in this heat and stillness there was no
presage, no thrill, however subtle, of a coming change, of storm.
Rather there was the deadness of eternity, as if this swoon would last
forever, neither developing into life, nor deepening into death.
Hermione had left the house feverishly, yearning to escape from her
company of spectres, yearning to escape from the sensation of ruthless
hands defacing her. As she passed the door-sill it was only with
difficulty that she suppressed a cry of "Ruffo!" a cry for help. But
when the night took her she no longer had any wish to disturb it by a
sound. She was penetrated at once by an atmosphere of fatality. Her
pace changed.
Pages:
735
736
737
738
739
740
741
742
743
744
745
746
747
748
749
750
751
752
753
754
755
756
757
758
759