The sound of Terence, breathing deep in his slumber, confirmed her in
her calm. She was not sleepy although she did not see anything very
distinctly, but although the figures passing through the hall became
vaguer and vaguer, she believed that they all knew exactly where they
were going, and the sense of their certainty filled her with comfort.
For the moment she was as detached and disinterested as if she had
no longer any lot in life, and she thought that she could now accept
anything that came to her without being perplexed by the form in which
it appeared. What was there to frighten or to perplex in the prospect
of life? Why should this insight ever again desert her? The world was in
truth so large, so hospitable, and after all it was so simple. "Love,"
St. John had said, "that seems to explain it all." Yes, but it was not
the love of man for woman, of Terence for Rachel. Although they sat so
close together, they had ceased to be little separate bodies; they had
ceased to struggle and desire one another. There seemed to be peace
between them. It might be love, but it was not the love of man for
woman.
Through her half-closed eyelids she watched Terence lying back in his
chair, and she smiled as she saw how big his mouth was, and his chin
so small, and his nose curved like a switchback with a knob at the end.
Naturally, looking like that he was lazy, and ambitious, and full of
moods and faults.
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