. . . .
Across the great gulf she could never stretch a hand. Death had thrown down no barriers, had brought them no nearer to one another. Wider and deeper—though before it had been very wide and deep—flowed the stream between them.
. . . .
Nearer and nearer came the sound, nearer and nearer. Where had she heard it before?
There was music in her ears now, the dreamy monotony of a waltz; the scent of dying flowers—tuberose, gardenia—was wafted in from some unseen region. It was a November night, not springtime sunset, and the harsh sound struck upwards through the mist:
“Death of a Conservative M.P.! Death of the member for St. Baldwin’s!”
. . . .
Away in Cambridge Leo paced beneath the lime-trees, a sick, blank horror at his heart.
Nearer, across that verdant stretch of twilit park, sat a wrinkled image of despair, surely a mark for the mirth of ironical gods.
And here by the open window sat Judith, absolutely motionless—a figure of stone.