For a long time she dung to it, with her
forehead leaning against the wood. One side of her loosened sarong had
slipped down as low as her hip. The long brown tresses of her hair
fell in lank wisps, as if wet, almost black against her white body. Her
uncovered flank, damp with the sweat of anguish and fatigue, gleamed
coldly with the immobility of polished marble in the hot, diffused
light falling through the window above her head--a dim reflection of the
consuming, passionate blaze of sunshine outside, all aquiver with the
effort to set the earth on fire, to burn it to ashes.
CHAPTER FOUR
Heyst, seated at the table with his chin on his breast, raised his head
at the faint rustle of Lena's dress. He was startled by the dead pallor
of her cheeks, by something lifeless in her eyes, which looked at
him strangely, without recognition. But to his anxious inquiries she
answered reassuringly that there was nothing the matter with her,
really. She had felt giddy on rising. She had even had a moment of
faintness, after her bath. She had to sit down to wait for it to pass.
This had made her late dressing.
"I didn't try to do my hair. I didn't want to keep you waiting any
longer," she said.
He was unwilling to press her with questions about her health, since she
seemed to make light of this indisposition. She had not done her hair,
but she had brushed it, and had tied it with a ribbon behind.
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