Yet it persisted. It seemed to him that the silence of the room
grew strained, there was the peculiar tension of a muteness desperately
striving for utterance. He waited, listened, in a rigidity of which he
was suddenly ashamed; ridiculous. He relaxed; the memory of his own
youth flooded back, rapt him in visions, scents, sounds. The premonitory
whirring of the clock spring sounded once more, followed by the slow,
increasing strokes ... Again. His body wavered, on the verge of sleep,
and he straightened himself sharply; then he rose and, putting back the
Forgebook, undressed.
Susan, at breakfast, her shoulders wrapped in a serious-toned pelerine,
said little. Jasper Penny instinctively excluded her from a trivial
conversation. She was, he decided, paler than usual, the shadows under
her eyes were indigo. He was filled with self-condemnation. Mrs. Penny,
gazing at her with a beady discernment, asked if her rest had been
interrupted. "I am always an indifferent sleeper," Susan Brundon replied
evasively. He followed her into the carriage that was to take her to the
station at Jaffa; and, ignoring her slight gasp of protest, grasped the
reins held by the negro coachman. However, they proceeded over the short
distance to the town without speech.
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