still, looking down at her, at her soft and gleaming hair, the sweet hair he loved and through which so often his hands had strayed, and it awoke in him an infinite pity, for it seemed like the black bandage round a wounded head.
For the last time he called her by her name:
"Agnes! Is it possible that we can part like this?… Come," he added after a moment, "give me your hand, get up and open the door for me."
She got up obediently, but she did not give him her hand; she went direct to the door through which she had entered the room, and there she stood still, waiting.
"What can I do?" he asked himself. And he knew very well that there was only one thing he could do to appease her: to fall at her feet again, to sin and be lost with her for ever.
And that he would not do, never never more. He remained firm, there where he stood, and lowered his eyes that he might not meet her
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