She heard her husband’s heavy tread descending the stairs, and the wheels of his carriage as he drove off. She did not want to seem to shrink from conversation, but all sorts of odd questions were running through her mind. I want to put myself into your hands. To escape one phase of loneliness she had plunged into another, so vast that her courage sometimes faltered. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. She pulled him down by his lapels and arched her head readily towards his neck. To find the incentive! But how? Thither and yon the idea roved, seeking the way. The rainstorm, short-lived, began to subside.
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