"And sorrow for such souls," said Suberov, with his mournful, delicate smile.
XII
Sophy found herself in the grey, rainy dawn, still walking to and fro in her bedroom. She had always thought that it was only in books and plays that people wrung their hands, but now she was twisting her fingers so hard together that the rings bit cruelly. She stripped them off—then stood gazing curiously at the finger where her wedding ring had been. She felt that there should be a little, blistered band where the poisoned ring had rested.
Yes—it was all over. There could be no compromise—no atonement this time. It was over—over. She would take her son and go back to her own country, to her own people. Nothing, no one could move her. And she heard again in imagination that brutal voice, shouting: "You lie!"
She went to a little cupboard and poured out a dose of sal volatile. This she drank, then leaned back for a few moments on the couch at the foot of her bed.
A knock at the door roused her. She sat up, gazing about her, at a loss for a few seconds. Then she realised. She must have slept.
"Who is it?" she asked.
"It's me, m'm. Tilda," came the voice of her little maid.
"Wait a moment, Tilda."