But Rowcliffe did not rest. He moved uneasily about the room.
A sudden tiredness came over her.
She thought, "Yes. We walked too far." She leaned her head back on the cushion. Her thin arms lay stretched out on either side of her, supported by the couch.
Rowcliffe ceased to wander. He drew up with his back against the chimney-piece, where he faced her.
"Close your eyes," he said.
She did not close them. But the tired lids drooped. The lifted bow of her mouth drooped. The small, sharp-pointed breasts drooped.
And as he watched her he remembered how he had quarreled with her in that room last night. And the thought of his brutality was intolerable to him.
His heart ached with tenderness, and his tenderness was intolerable too.
The small white face with its suffering eyes and drooping eyelids, the drooping breasts, the thin white arms slackened along the couch, the childlike helplessness of the tired body moved him with a vehement desire. And his strength that had withstood her in her swift, defiant beauty melted away.
"Steven—"