she ran to the washing-stand and plunged her hands and then her face into the basin of cold water. She had succeeded; the trance was over.
Half past twelve; he was not coming. It was useless, making believe that she was glad, when she was sorry, utterly sorry. It seemed as if her heart was crushed; she was yearning for him, why did he not come? Her longing every moment grew more intense, more unbearable, it had now become a pain.
Just then she heard a low, a very low kind of lullaby. Did she hear it or did her ears deceive her? She listened, it was louder now. No, she was not mistaken.
It was so soft and sweet that it must have been a snake charmer's song.
Could it have been that Indian air for which Shelley wrote his magic rhyme?
The voice was approaching stealthily.
He was coming, he was near.
What was she to do, to run away, to hide herself, to escape in her aunt's room?
A feeling of dread came over her; why
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