"Oh, you've made it
worse!" Philippe must have gibed.
("B"--who wrote "B" on the wall? The Bulgarian--)
She fell asleep.
The first bird, waking early, threw the image of the world across her
lonely sleep. He squeaked alone, minute after minute, from his tree
outside the window, thrusting forests, swamps, meadows, mountains in
among her dreams. Then a fellow joined him, and soon all the birds were
shouting from their trees. Slowly the room lightened till on the
mantelpiece the buds of the apple blossom shone, till upon the wall the
dark patch became an oil painting, till the painting showed its features
--a castle, a river and a hill.
In the night the last yellow down had fallen from the palm upon the
floor.
The common voice of the tin clock struck seven. And with it came women's
voices--women's voices on the landing outside the door--the voice of
the _concierge_ and another's.'
Some instinct, some strange warning, sent the sleeper on the bed flying
from it, dazed as she was. Snatching at the initialled cup of gold
veining she thrust it behind the curtain on the window sill. An act of
panic merely, for a second glance round the room convinced her that
there was too much to be hidden, if hidden anything should be. With a
leap she was back in bed, and drew the bedclothes up to her neck.
Then came the knock at the door.
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