His wife was there,
standing in the shadow by the window, staring out into the Precincts. He
came across the room softly to her, then gently put his hand on her
shoulder.
She had not heard his approach. She turned round with a sharp cry and then
faced him, staring, her eyes terrified. He, on his side, was so deeply
startled by her alarm that he could only stare back at her, himself
frightened and feeling a strange clumsy foolishness at her alarm.
Broken sentences came from her: "What did you--? Who--? You shouldn't have
done that. You frightened me."
Her voice was sharply angry, and in all their long married life together
he had never before felt her so completely a stranger; he felt as though
he had accosted some unknown woman in the street and been attacked by her
for his familiarity. He took refuge, as he always did when he was
confused, in pomposity.
"Really, my dear, you'd think I was a burglar. Hum--yes. You shouldn't be
so easily startled."
She was still staring at him as though even now she did not realise his
identity. Her hands were clenched and her breath came in little hurried
gasps as though she had been running.
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