She sat at the window, head high to him, bowered in roses. Her face was turned slightly away. Her long fine hands lay, inert, on the sill. Her face, purity itself in the pure moonlight, seemed dimmed with weariness and strain, a flower glowing through a mist.
With a shock of remembrance that was almost grotesque, Sedgwick realized that he had no name by which to call her. So he called her by the name that is Love’s own.
She did not change her posture. But her lips parted. Her lids drooped and quivered. She was as one in a lovely dream.
He stepped toward her and spoke again.
“You!” she cried; and her voice breaking from a whisper into a thrill of pure music: “You!”
There was, in the one syllable, so much of terror that his heart shivered; so much of welcome that his heart leaped; so much of joy that his heart sang.
Bending, he pressed his lips on her hands, and felt them tremble beneath his kiss. They were withdrawn, and fluttered for the briefest moment, at his temples. Then she spoke, hurriedly and softly.
“You must go. At once! At once!”
“When I have just found you?”
“If you have any care for me—for my happiness—for my good name—go away from this house of dread.”