Over her broad forehead she had wound a large silk
handkerchief in turban fashion. It hung down behind. She wished to
conceal the thinness of her hair. He smiled to recognise her again
in this. More spiritualised, more ethereal in her beauty, her
innermost aspirations shone forth without effort. Her thin hands
caressed his hair, and now she gazed into his eyes.
"Rafael, my Rafael!" She twined her arms round him and murmured
welcome. But soon she raised her head and resumed a sitting
posture. She wished to speak. He was beforehand with her.
"Forgive the letter," he whispered with beseeching eyes and voice,
and hands upraised.
"I saw the distress of your soul," was the whispered answer, for
it could not be spoken aloud. "And there was nothing to forgive,"
she added. She had laid her face against his again. "And it was
quite true, Rafael," she murmured.
She must have passed through terrible days and nights here, he
thought, before she could say that.
"Mother, mother! what a fearful time!"
Her little hand sought his: it was cold; it lay in his like an egg
in a deserted nest. He warmed it and took the other as well.
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