She had recognized
him. He, too, had recognized her at the first glance. He had been made
known to her at Zurich, where he had broken his journey while on his
way from Dresden. They had been much together for the three days of his
stay.
She was wearing the very same costume in which he had seen her first. A
blouse of crimson silk made her noticeable at a distance. With that
she wore a short brown skirt and a leather belt. Her complexion was
the colour of coffee and milk, but very clear; her eyes black and
glittering, her figure erect. A lot of thick hair, nearly white, was
done up loosely under a dusty Tyrolese hat of dark cloth, which seemed
to have lost some of its trimmings.
The expression of her face was grave, intent; so grave that Razumov,
after approaching her close, felt obliged to smile. She greeted him with
a manly hand-grasp.
"What! Are you going away?" she exclaimed. "How is that, Razumov?"
"I am going away because I haven't been asked to stay," Razumov
answered, returning the pressure of her hand with much less force than
she had put into it.
She jerked her head sideways like one who understands. Meantime
Razumov's eyes had strayed after the two men. They were crossing the
grass-plot obliquely, without haste. The shorter of the two was buttoned
up in a narrow overcoat of some thin grey material, which came nearly
to his heels.
Pages:
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307