"It is impossible to be more unhappy...." The languid whisper of her
voice struck me with dismay. "It is impossible.... I feel my heart
becoming like ice."
IV
Razumov walked straight home on the wet glistening pavement. A heavy
shower passed over him; distant lightning played faintly against the
fronts of the dumb houses with the shuttered shops all along the Rue
de Carouge; and now and then, after the faint flash, there was a faint,
sleepy rumble; but the main forces of the thunderstorm remained
massed down the Rhone valley as if loath to attack the respectable and
passionless abode of democratic liberty, the serious-minded town of
dreary hotels, tendering the same indifferent, hospitality to tourists
of all nations and to international conspirators of every shade.
The owner of the shop was making ready to close when Razumov entered and
without a word extended his hand for the key of his room. On reaching
it for him, from a shelf, the man was about to pass a small joke as to
taking the air in a thunderstorm, but, after looking at the face of his
lodger, he only observed, just to say something--
"You've got very wet."
"Yes, I am washed clean," muttered Razumov, who was dripping from head
to foot, and passed through the inner door towards the staircase leading
to his room.
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