Bobby came in and found him there. Peter's face was so white that his collar and shirt seemed to be a continuation of his body—a sudden gruesome nakedness. Both his hands were shaking and his eyes were puzzled as though he were asking himself some question that he could not solve.
Bobby started forward—
“God, Peter, what—”
“She's gone away, Bobby,” Peter said, in a voice that shook a little but was otherwise grave and almost a whisper, so low was it. “She's gone away—to Cardillac.” Then he added to himself—“Cardillac is my best friend.”
Then he said “Listen,” and he read the letter straight through. He repeated some of the phrases—“What you did on April 12.” “That shows that you don't care.... You are cruel and hard, Peter.... I am going to Jerry in Paris....”
“Jerry—that's Cardillac, you know, Bobby. He's in Paris and she's going over to him because she can't stand me any more. She says I don't care about her. Isn't that funny, when I love her so much?”
Bobby went to him, put his arm round his neck—
“Peter—dear—Peter—wait,” and then “Oh my God! we must stop her—”
He drew himself away from Bobby's arm and, very unsteadily, went across the room and then stood against the farther wall, his head bent, motionless.
“Stop her? Oh! no, Bobby. Stop her when she wants to go! I—” His voice wasn't Peter's voice, it was a thin monotonous voice like some one speaking at a great distance.