To my great surprise they were no longer brown and strong as a young man's hands ought to be, but of a sickly white, and so thin that I found myself laughing at them in a slow, soft way, as one laughs in one's sleep.
At first it did not seem to matter that I should have hands like that; but suddenly, with a rush of blood to the heart, I realized that it was unnatural, dreadful, that something hideous must have happened to me.
In a moment my head was clear, and I felt as if a tight band had been taken off my forehead.
Yes, something had happened, but what?
I looked round and saw a room unfamiliar, yet already hated. It was a small, but beautiful room, the walls covered with Moorish work, such as I had seen at the Alhambra. I lay on a divan-bed, in an alcove without windows; but in the room beyond, I saw one with a dainty filigree frame, supported by a marble pillar. There was also an archway, from which a curtain was pushed aside, and I could see the end of a marble bath.
How had I come to this place? Where was it, and how long had I been there? were the next questions I asked myself.
There was no more dreaming now. The room was real; and the whiteness and emaciation of my hands were real. A man must have been very ill, and for a long time, to have hands as white and thin as that.
Suddenly I sat up, crying aloud, “Monica!”
[pg 319] The sound of her name brought her image before me. What horrible thing had been done to me that I should have forgotten her very existence?
Strength failed, and I fell back, a dampness coming out on my forehead. Above all, what had been done to her? “Don't leave me alone,” she had begged; yet I had deserted her. I was—here.