A new restlessness seemed to have stolen in upon her. Alors, one must steel oneself. Her cheeks seemed to burn, her veins ran riot, and her heart was beating so fast that she was sure he must feel it through his scarlet coat. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. Her eyebrows were lifted in expostulation. “Good luck! Good luck!” She waved from the window until the bend hid him. When next he asked for her, some twelve hours later, he was told that Mademoiselle had left. But … he must want to live in order that the inclination to repeat this incident may not recur. That night a grave was dug in Willesden churchyard, next to that in which Mrs. Her birthday was four months away, and that, at its extremist point, might give her another five pounds. “What is the exact force of a motif?” she asked at random.
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