Quietly she unbuttoned the fawn gloves; drew each one
off and laid them aside. And then, for the first time, he saw her
hands.
Had he looked at her, seen the faint hope die out, the mute agony in
the quiet eyes watching him, he would have tried to hide the
disgust, the physical repulsion that showed itself so plainly in his
face, in the involuntary movement with which he drew away from her.
They were small and shapely with rounded curves, but raw and seared
as with hot irons, with a growth of red, angry-coloured warts, and
the nails all worn away.
"I ought to have shown them to you before," she said simply as she
drew the gloves on again. "It was silly of me. I ought to have
known."
He tried to comfort her, but his phrases came meaningless and
halting.
It was the work, she explained as they walked on. It made your
hands like that after a time. If only she could have got out of it
earlier! But now! It was no good worrying about it now.
They parted near to the Hanover Gate, but to-night he did not stand
watching her as he had always done till she waved a last good-bye to
him just before disappearing; so whether she turned or not he never
knew.
He did not go to meet her the next evening. A dozen times his
footsteps led him unconsciously almost to the gate.
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