She perceived that his countenance was only composed by a great effort, his features severely compressed. She stood, as it were, directed doorward, with her eyes watching every movement, listening to him, repelled by him and yet dimly understanding. We can love on a snow cornice, we can love over a pail of whitewash. She reflected upon that with a thrill of terror that was also, somehow, in some faint remote way, gleeful.
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