Her mind had gone back to the day of her last memorable interview
with Agnes; she was slowly recalling the confession that had escaped her,
the warning words which she had spoken at that past time.
Necessarily incapable of understanding this, Francis looked
at her in perplexity. She went on in the same dull vacant tone,
steadily following out her own train of thought, with her heedless
eyes on his face, and her wandering mind far away from him.
'I said some trifling event would bring us together the next time.
I was wrong. No trifling event will bring us together.
I said I might be the person who told her what had become of Ferrari,
if she forced me to it. Shall I feel some other influence than hers?
Will he force me to it? When she sees him, shall I see
him too?'
Her head sank a little; her heavy eyelids dropped slowly;
she heaved a long low weary sigh. Francis put her arm in his,
and made an attempt to rouse her.
'Come, Countess, you are weary and over-wrought. We have had
enough talking to-night. Let me see you safe back to your hotel.
Is it far from here?'
She started when he moved, and obliged her to move with him,
as if he had suddenly awakened her out of a deep sleep.
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