Reaching the bottom he stood still once more. On either side of him he
could faintly discern openings leading into other rooms. Perhaps
Hermione, hearing him call, had retreated from him through one of
them. A sort of horror of the situation came upon him, as he began
thoroughly to realize the hatred, hatred of brain, of nerves, of
heart, that was surely quivering in Hermione in this moment, that was
driving her away into the darkness from sound and touch of life. Like
a wounded animal she was creeping away from it and hating it. He
remembered Gaspare's words about the look she had cast upon perhaps
the most truly faithful of all her friends.
But--she did not know. And he, Artois, must tell her. He must make her
see the exact truth of the years. He must win her back to reason.
Reason! As the word went through his mind it chilled him, like the
passing of a thing coated with ice. He had been surely a reasonable
man, and his reasonableness had led him to this hour. Suddenly he saw
himself, as he had seen that palace door by lightning.
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