In the faint
moonlight the tent cast black shadows upon the wintry whiteness of the
sands, that rose and fell like waves of a smooth but foam-covered sea.
And the shadow of the sleeping-tent looked the blackest of them all.
For she began to feel as if there was another darkness about it than the
darkness that it cast upon the sand. Her husband's face that night as
he came in from the dunes had been dark with a shadow cast surely by his
soul. And she did not know what it was in his soul that sent forth the
shadow.
"Boris!"
She was at the door of the sleeping-tent. He did not answer.
"Boris!"
He came in from the farther tent that he used as a dressing-room,
carrying a lit candle in his hand. She went up to him with a movement of
swift, ardent sincerity.
"You felt ill in the city? Did Batouch let you come back alone?"
"I preferred to be alone."
He set down the candle on the table, and moved so that the light of it
did not fall upon his face. She took his hands in hers gently. There was
no response in his hands. They remained in hers, nervelessly. They
felt almost like dead things in her hands.
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