It seemed to him that a sort of mist had risen up between them. “It is a night of endings,” she murmured to herself. As she talked she made weak little gestures with her hands, and she thrust her face forward from her bent shoulders; and she peered sometimes at Ann Veronica and sometimes at a photograph of the Axenstrasse, near Fluelen, that hung upon the wall. Darting quickly to the chest that contained the priest’s vestments, she leapt onto it and reached her arm down to scrabble behind it on the floor. I don’t know why that should be so acutely humiliating. It’s for you to say if I may sit on it.
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