To drive the apprehensions from her mind, she rose suddenly,
shrugging shoulders, as though her blood were cold, and went to the
piano. Without thinking, she sat down, began to play; then her hands
lifted from the keys as if they burnt her touch. She had as suddenly
remembered. Traill was below. For a moment longer she sat there, just
touching, feeling the notes with the tips of her fingers--listening
to the sounds in her mind--then she rose, standing motionless,
attentive to all the little noises in the room below.
She heard the clink of a glass. He was taking his whisky. The sound
indicated that he would soon be going to bed. She glanced at the clock,
ticking daintily on her mantelpiece. It was just after eleven.
Thoughts, calculations began to wander to her mind. Downstairs, he
had said good night, kissed her--gently, as he always did--and opened
the door for her as she came upstairs. But then he did that every
night. Every evening he kissed her, every evening he said good night;
but then perhaps, some half-hour later, she would hear him mounting
the stairs to her room, and her heart would hammer like steel upon
an anvil until he had knocked at her door and she had whispered--"Come
in.
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