hands. Yes, of course, it was the girl down there below, there could be no doubt about that, but if . . . if, for instance, she had a veil, and was wearing a fur covered with drops of moisture . . . and little gloves—Prokop ground his teeth. It was impossible that she should resemble her so! He half closed his eyes in the effort to catch a retreating vision. Again he saw the girl with the veil, pressing to her breast the sealed package and now, now she turned on him a pure and desperate glance.
Beside himself with excitement, he compared the photograph with the form in his mind’s eye. Good heavens, what exactly did she look like? He didn’t know, he thought, with sudden fear. He only knew that she was veiled and beautiful. She was beautiful and veiled, and he had noticed nothing more, nothing more. And this picture here with the large eyes and delicate and serious mouth, was that the one . . . the one asleep down there? But she had her lips half open, sinful and half-opened lips and loosened hair and didn’t look like that, didn’t look like that. Before his eyes was the veil covered with rain drops. No, that was nonsense; it could not be the girl down there, it was nothing like her. This was the face of the girl with the veil who came in anguish and consternation; her brow was calm and her eyes darkened with pain. Against her lips there was pressing her veil, a thick veil with drops of moisture on it. Why didn’t he raise it, so as to see what she was like?
“Come along. I have something I want to show you,” said Daimon, and dragged Prokop outside.
