She went and stood at the further window, staring out at the rain. For
a long time we were absolutely still. The wind and rain came in little
gusts upon the pane. She turned to me abruptly.
"You didn't ask me if I loved you," she said.
"Oh, if it's THAT!" said I.
"It's not that," she said. "But if you want to know--" She paused.
"I do," she said.
We stared at one another.
"I do--with all my heart, if you want to know."
"Then, why the devil--?" I asked.
She made no answer. She walked across the room to the piano and began
to play, rather noisily and rapidly, with odd gusts of emphasis,
the shepherd's pipe music from the last act in "Tristan and Isolde."
Presently she missed a note, failed again, ran her finger heavily up the
scale, struck the piano passionately with her fist, making a feeble jar
in the treble, jumped up, and went out of the room....
The nurse found me still wearing my helmet of bandages, partially
dressed, and pottering round the room to find the rest of my clothes.
I was in a state of exasperated hunger for Beatrice, and I was too
inflamed and weakened to conceal the state of my mind.
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