She neither moved nor spoke. He stooped and looked
closer at her.
What impression had he produced? It was an impression which his
utmost ingenuity had failed to anticipate. She stood by his side--
just as she had stood before Agnes when her question about Ferrari
was plainly answered at last--like a woman turned to stone.
Her eyes were vacant and rigid; all the life in her face had faded
out of it. Francis took her by the hand. Her hand was as cold
as the pavement that they were standing on. He asked her if she
was ill.
Not a muscle in her moved. He might as well have spoken to the dead.
'Surely,' he said, 'you are not foolish enough to take what I
have been telling you seriously?'
Her lips moved slowly. As it seemed, she was making an effort
to speak to him.
'Louder,' he said. 'I can't hear you.'
She struggled to recover possession of herself. A faint light began
to soften the dull cold stare of her eyes. In a moment more she
spoke so that he could hear her.
'I never thought of the other world,' she murmured, in low dull tones,
like a woman talking in her sleep.
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