Her
own aspect--he could scarce have said why--intensified this note.
Almost as white as wax, with the marks and signs in her face as
numerous and as fine as if they had been etched by a needle, with
soft white draperies relieved by a faded green scarf on the
delicate tone of which the years had further refined, she was the
picture of a serene and exquisite but impenetrable sphinx, whose
head, or indeed all whose person, might have been powdered with
silver. She was a sphinx, yet with her white petals and green
fronds she might have been a lily too--only an artificial lily,
wonderfully imitated and constantly kept, without dust or stain,
though not exempt from a slight droop and a complexity of faint
creases, under some clear glass bell. The perfection of household
care, of high polish and finish, always reigned in her rooms, but
they now looked most as if everything had been wound up, tucked in,
put away, so that she might sit with folded hands and with nothing
more to do. She was "out of it," to Marcher's vision; her work was
over; she communicated with him as across some gulf or from some
island of rest that she had already reached, and it made him feel
strangely abandoned.
Pages:
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69