"There was," she said. "You wanted me. And you could have had me, as you
very well know."
Without replying, Ives let his gaze wander slowly about the room. There
had been no change in it since last he had been in it, three years
before. He vividly recalled the thoughts that had been in his mind then.
The contents of that room were as fixed, in their way, as the everlasting
hills. No change would ever come there except the inevitable ones
wrought by time and decay. That silver-mounted album would occupy that
corner of that table, those pictures would hang on the walls, those
chairs be found in their same places every morn and noon and night while
the household hung together. The brass andirons were monuments to order
and stability. Here and there were relics of a hundred years ago which
were still living mementos and would be for many years to come. One
going from and coming back to that house would never need to forecast or
doubt. He would find what he left, and leave what he found. The veiled
lady, Chance, would never lift her hand to the knocker on the outer
door.
And before him sat the lady who belonged in the room. Cool and sweet
and unchangeable she was. She offered no surprises.
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