"
He bent and looked at the hand lying within his own--the little hand
with its fresh fragrant palm upturned and the white fingers relaxed,
drooping inward above it--at the delicate bluish vein in the smooth
wrist.
Then he released the hand, untouched by his lips; and she withdrew it
and closed the door; and he heard her laugh softly, and lean against it,
whispering:
"Now that I am safely locked in--I merely wish to say that--in the old
days--a lady's hand was sometimes--kissed. . . . Oh, but you are too
late, my poor friend! I can't come out; and I wouldn't if I could--not
after what I dared to say to you. . . . In fact, I shall probably remain
locked up here for days and days. . . . Besides, what I said is out of
fashion--has no significance nowadays--or, perhaps, too much. . . . No,
I won't dress and come out--even for you. _Je me deshabille--je fais ma
toilette de nuit, monsieur--et je vais maintenant m'agenouiller et faire
ma priere. Donc--bon soir--et bonne nuit_--"
And, too low for him to hear even the faintest breathing whisper of her
voice--"Good-night.
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