Emma asked herself whether this lady, his wife, could know anything of her story. It seemed so, from the tone of the question. She only replied:
‘Yes, it is.’
Then she again ventured to look up at the woman whose beauty had made her life barren. There were no signs of tears on Adela’s face; to Emma she seemed cold, though so grave and gentle. Adela gazed for a while at the dead man. She, too, felt as though it were all a dream. The spectacle of Emma’s passionate grief had kept her emotion within her heart, perhaps had weakened it.
‘You have yourself been hurt,’ she said, turning again to the other.
Emma only shook her head. She suffered terribly from Adela’s presence.
‘I will go,’ she said in a whisper.
‘This is your room, I think?’
‘Yes.’
‘May I stay here?’
‘Of course—you must.’