Then had followed her silent ride back to Beni-Mora with Androvsky along
the straight road which had always fascinated her spirit of adventure.
They had ridden slowly, without looking at each other, without
exchanging a word. She had felt dry and weary, like an old woman who had
passed through a long life of suffering and emerged into a region where
any acute feeling is unable to exist, as at a certain altitude from the
earth human life can no longer exist. The beat of the horses' hoofs upon
the road had sounded hard, as her heart felt, cold as the temperature
of her mind. Her body, which usually swayed to her horse's slightest
movement, was rigid in the saddle. She recollected that once, when her
horse stumbled, she had thrilled with an abrupt anger that was almost
ferocious, and had lifted her whip to lash it. But the hand had slipped
down nervelessly, and she had fallen again into her frigid reverie.
When they reached the hotel she had dropped to the ground, heavily, and
heavily had ascended the steps of the verandah, followed by Androvsky.
Without turning to him or bidding him good-night she had gone to
her room.
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