She thought of no result any more
than a tree perpetually pressed downwards by the wind considers the
result of being pressed downwards by the wind.
During the two or three weeks which had passed since their walk, half a
dozen notes from him had accumulated in her drawer. She would read
them, and spend the whole morning in a daze of happiness; the sunny land
outside the window being no less capable of analysing its own colour
and heat than she was of analysing hers. In these moods she found it
impossible to read or play the piano, even to move being beyond her
inclination. The time passed without her noticing it. When it was dark
she was drawn to the window by the lights of the hotel. A light that
went in and out was the light in Terence's window: there he sat, reading
perhaps, or now he was walking up and down pulling out one book after
another; and now he was seated in his chair again, and she tried to
imagine what he was thinking about. The steady lights marked the rooms
where Terence sat with people moving round him. Every one who stayed in
the hotel had a peculiar romance and interest about them. They were not
ordinary people. She would attribute wisdom to Mrs. Elliot, beauty to
Susan Warrington, a splendid vitality to Evelyn M., because Terence
spoke to them. As unreflecting and pervasive were the moods of
depression. Her mind was as the landscape outside when dark beneath
clouds and straitly lashed by wind and hail.
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