第7部分

請關閉瀏覽器的閱讀/暢讀/小說模式並且關閉廣告遮蔽過濾功能，避免出現內容無法顯示或者段落錯亂。

nd　he　knew；　if　he　asked　her；　she　must　really　acquiesce。

She　must；　it　could　not　be　otherwise。

He　had　learned　a　little　of　her。　She　was　poor；　quite　alone；

and　had　had　a　hard　time　in　London；　both　before　and　after　her

husband　died。　But　in　Poland　she　was　a　lady　well　born；　a

landowner's　daughter。

All　these　things　were　only　words　to　him；　the　fact　of　her

superior　birth；　the　fact　that　her　husband　had　been　a　brilliant

doctor；　the　fact　that　he　himself　was　her　inferior　in　almost

every　way　of　distinction。　There　was　an　inner　reality；　a　logic　of

the　soul；　which　connected　her　with　him。

One　evening　in　March；　when　the　wind　was　roaring　outside；　came

the　moment　to　ask　her。　He　had　sat　with　his　hands　before　him；

leaning　to　the　fire。　And　as　he　watched　the　fire；　he　knew　almost

without　thinking　that　he　was　going　this　evening。

〃Have　you　got　a　clean　shirt？〃　he　asked　Tilly。

〃You　know　you've　got　clean　shirts；〃　she　said。

〃Ay；……bring　me　a　white　one。〃

Tilly　brought　down　one　of　the　linen　shirts　he　had　inherited

from　his　father；　putting　it　before　him　to　air　at　the　fire。　She

loved　him　with　a　dumb；　aching　love　as　he　sat　leaning　with　his

arms　on　his　knees；　still　and　absorbed；　unaware　of　her。　Lately；　a

quivering　inclination　to　cry　had　e　over　her；　when　she　did

anything　for　him　in　his　presence。　Now　her　hands　trembled　as　she

spread　the　shirt。　He　was　never　shouting　and　teasing　now。　The

deep　stillness　there　was　in　the　house　made　her　tremble。

He　went　to　wash　himself。　Queer　little　breaks　of　consciousness

seemed　to　rise　and　burst　like　bubbles　out　of　the　depths　of　his

stillness。

〃It's　got　to　be　done；〃　he　said　as　he　st