While the great music went sobbing and chiding through her
frame, like wounded nightingales, he had sat in the dark, with his arms
folded, never looking at her fully, nor seeking to win a glance from her
soul to his own. That it stirred her to the deeps he knew. He could watch
sideways, listen sideways, both hear and see that she was rapt. Her quick-
heaving breast, the whistle of her short breath, the strained line of her
head and shoulder--all this he marked and stored without a sign. Even
when, on going out, he had been conscious of her overcharged heart, of her
breast full of emotion; even when she had told him under her breath that
she was happier, though he shivered, he drew away. He had nodded quickly,
smiled, blinked his eyes. "I was sure of that," was all he allowed himself
in the way of intimacy.
Swift, fire-consumed, intensely sensitive, subtle-minded, this was a man
who relished suggestions more than things. He had far rather deal mentally
with the lovely image of Sanchia, as he saw it, than actually with the
breathing, palpitating flesh. To picture her longing, straining,
trembling--to keep her always so, always holding out her arms, never
obtaining what she sought: his bliss lay in that.
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