And then he buried his face in his hands and wept bitterly. She stared at him in terror and alarm. In all the sixteen years that she had known him, she had never seen a tear in his eyes before.
She jumped up, and taking his head between both her hands, whispered, "Leo, dear, dearest Leo."
She tried to loosen his fingers, and as she could not succeed, pressed her lips to them. He did not stir. Her anxiety grew ever greater, and she sprang upon the steps to kneel beside him, so that she could put her arms about his neck. A dim inkling of her guiltiness towards him dawned on her as she saw this giant so crushed in body and soul. To make good the harm that she had done and to drown her own compassion, she could think of nothing better to do than to kiss him. And she kissed every bit of his face which she could reach. She kissed his hair, his hands, his throat. Then she drew his head down on her lap, and unlocked his hands with caressing fingers.
He lay like a man asleep, with closed eyes and relaxed muscles. His breath came in short, heavy gasps, and she kissed him long and passionately on the lips.
He opened his eyes shivering, and gave her a half-dazed look. Then closed them again.
"We must go now," she whispered, gently raising his head. "The gardener might come and surprise us, and then it would be all up indeed."
He rubbed his forehead, rose slowly, and shook himself, and then reeled against the wall.
"Come, come," she implored, drawing her furs over her shoulders.
"Yes, I am coming," he said, and stumbled obediently behind her out into the snow.
He paused at the hall door.