Grove's face turned slightly from him: the curve of her cheek met the
pointed chin and the graceful contour of her exposed long throat; there
was the shadow of a tormenting smile on the pale vermilion of her lips,
in her half closed eyes; her hair, in that light, was black. A
sensation of coldness, a spiritual shiver, went through Lee Randon; the
resemblance that had eluded him was mercilessly clear--it was to the
doll, to Cytherea.
* * * * *
When Dr. Davencott and his wife had gone Lee sank back into his chair,
more disorganized by his culminating discovery than by any of the
extraordinary conditions that had preceded it. Its quality of the
unexpected, however, wasn't enough to account for the profound effect
on him; that was buried in the secret of instinctive recognitions.
"Well, the thing for me to do is to go to bed," he said aloud, but it
was no more than an unconvinced mutter, addressed to the indeterminate
region of his feet. Savina Grove was standing by the door, in the
place, the position, in which she had said good-bye to the Davencotts.
Her flamboyant tulle skirt, contrasted with the tightly-fitting upper
part of her dress, gave her, now, in the sombre crowded furnishings,
the rich draped brocades, of the room, an aspect of mid-Victorian
unreality.
"It is for me, as well," she agreed, but so long after he had spoken
that the connection between their remarks was almost lost.
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