The going of her kind host made her own going more
possible than before, even more likely. Some words from the Bible kept
on running through her brain "Here have we no continuing city." In the
silent darkness their cadence held an ineffable melancholy. Her mind
heard them as the ear, in a pathetic moment, hears sometimes a distant
strain of music wailing like a phantom through the invisible. And the
everlasting journeying of all created things oppressed her heart.
When she had buttoned her jacket and drawn on her gloves she went to the
French window and pushed back the shutters. A wan semi-darkness looked
in upon her. Again she wondered whether Batouch had come. It seemed to
her unlikely. She could not imagine that anyone in all the world was up
and purposeful but herself. This hour seemed created as a curtain for
unconsciousness. Very softly she stepped out upon the verandah and
looked over the parapet. She could see the white road, mysteriously
white, below. It was deserted. She leaned down.
"Batouch!" she called softly. "Batouch!"
He might be hidden under the arcade, sleeping in his burnous.
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