She stood still and listened.
No, no, not a sound save the rain on the roof. It was the music of
her own heart, beating irregularly and fiercely to an intermittent
lilt, like a Hungarian waltz or a Roumanian tarantella.
By this time, Elina was thoroughly frightened. Was she going mad?
she asked herself, or had some evil spirit taken up his abode within
her? What made her spin and twirl about like this--irresponsibly,
unintentionally, irrepressibly, meaninglessly? Oh, what would her
mother say, if only she knew all? And what on earth would Cyril
Waring think of her?
Cyril Waring! Cyril Waring! It was all Cyril Waring. And yet, if
he knew--oh, mercy, mercy!
Still, in spite of these doubts, misgivings, fears, she walked over
towards the chest of drawers with a firm and rhythmical tread, to
the bars of the internal music that rang loud through her brain,
and began opening one drawer after another in an aimless fashion.
She was looking for something--she didn't know what; and she never
could rest now until she'd found it.
Drawer upon drawer she opened and shut wearily, but nothing that
her eyes fell upon seemed to suit her mood. Dresses and jackets and
underlinen were there; she glanced at them all with a deep sense
of profound contempt; none of these gewgaws of civilized life could
be of any use to supply the vague want her soul felt so dimly and
yet so acutely.
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