Her deep dark eyes, heavy with distress, the corners of her mouth repudiating the misery of the moment. She put her hand on his arm.
"Don't," she said, "there is in life such an incoherent mass of interwoven strands. And perhaps something comes and tears them all to bits."
Her voice was chanting—as if she were singing him a lullaby—then it became light again.
"Wait till the next lamp," she said. "And you will see in my eyes the old laughter that you used to love."
They turned down a side street and there were no more lights.
Abruptly the taxi stopped.
She got out. Her pale gold coat was a continuation of the moon.
She turned her brooding eyes away from him.
"Thank you for taking me home," she said; her voice had broken. She looked back—a smile turned on to her lips.
He heard her latch key. The door opened and shut.