It was on the fifth floor, and its broad window of plate glass looked
over the roofs of the town. Beyond them stretched a wooded landscape in
which the last fires of sunset were picking out a steely gleam. Charity
gazed at the gleam with startled eyes. Even through the gathering
twilight she recognized the contour of the soft hills encircling it, and
the way the meadows sloped to its edge. It was Nettleton Lake that she
was looking at.
She stood a long time in the window staring out at the fading water. The
sight of it had roused her for the first time to a realization of what
she had done. Even the feeling of the ring on her hand had not brought
her this sharp sense of the irretrievable. For an instant the old
impulse of flight swept through her; but it was only the lift of a
broken wing. She heard the door open behind her, and Mr. Royall came in.
He had gone to the barber's to be shaved, and his shaggy grey hair had
been trimmed and smoothed. He moved strongly and quickly, squaring his
shoulders and carrying his head high, as if he did not want to pass
unnoticed.
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