She broke from her tense cramp of agony gradually, though each movement was a goad of heavy pain. Gradually, she lifted her dead body from the sands, and rose at last. There was now no moon for her, no sea. All had passed away. She trailed her dead body to the house, to her room, where she lay down inert.
Morning brought her a new access of superficial life. But all within her was cold, dead, inert. Skrebensky appeared at breakfast. He was white and obliterated. They did not look at each other nor speak to each other. Apart from the ordinary, trivial talk of civil people, they were separate, they did not speak of what was between them during the remaining two days of their stay. They were like two dead people who dare not recognize, dare not see each other.
Then she packed her bag and put on her things. There were several guests leaving together, for the same train. He would have no opportunity to speak to her.
He tapped at her bedroom door at the last minute. She stood with her umbrella in her hand. He closed the door. He did not know what to say.
“Have you done with me?” he asked her at length, lifting his head.
“It isn’t me,” she said. “You have done with me—we have done with each other.”
He looked at her, at the closed face, which he thought so cruel. And he knew he could never touch her again. His will was broken, he was seared, but he clung to the life of his body.
“Well, what have I done?” he asked, in a rather querulous voice.
“I don’t know,” she said, in the same dull, feelingless voice. “It is finished. It had been a failure.”
He was silent. The words still burned his bowels.