The white hands motionless upon the knees, the eyes facing the light but
blind, the body still against the velvet, throughout the long, long day....
III
There were occasions when some one came and asked for his ticket. Some one
came once and asked him whether "He would take lunch." Once a woman,
flushed and excited, laden with parcels, tumbled into his carriage and
then, after a glance at the white face, tumbled out again.
Then, from very, very far away, came the first whispered breath of
returning consciousness. The afternoon sun now had banished the black
clouds--the wind had fallen--the sky was a quiet blue and birds rose and
fell, rivers shone and had passed, roads were white like ribbons, broad and
brown like crinkled paper, then ribbons again as the train flung
Devonshire, scornfully, behind its back. Peter was conscious that his body
was once more to be tenanted. But by whom?
Here was some one coming to him now, some one who, as the evening light
fell about the land, dark with his cloak to his face, came softly upon the
house and knocked at the door. Peter could hear his knock--it echoed
through the empty passages, the deserted rooms, it was a knock that
demanded, imperatively, admittance. The door swung back, the black passages
gaped upon the evening light and were closed again. The house was once more
silent--but no longer untenanted.
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