She said nothing. Her hands dropped from his shoulders, she turned away and her lips moved once more.
Then Androvsky moved slowly in through the doorway of the monastery, crossed the patch of sunlight, lifted his hand and rang the bell at the second door.
“Drive back to Tunis, please.”
“Madame!” said the coachman.
“Drive back to Tunis.”
“Madame is not going to enter! But Monsieur—”
“Drive back to Tunis!”
Something in the voice that spoke to him startled the coachman. He hesitated a moment, staring at Domini from his seat, then, with a muttered curse, he turned his horses’ heads and plied the whip ferociously.
“Love watcheth, and sleeping, slumbereth not. When weary it is not tired. When weary—it—is not—tired.”