Thoughts dart between the window and the street, and not a word is spoken.
She turns round, I feel a wrench in me, a delicate shock through my
senses; I see a shoulder that turns, a back that disappears across the
floor. That reluctant turning from the window, the accentuation in that
movement of the shoulders was like a nod to me. My blood was sensible of
all the delicate, dainty greeting, and I felt all at once rarely glad.
Then I wheeled round and went down the street.
I dared not look back, and knew not if she had returned to the window. The
more I considered this question the more nervous and restless I became.
Probably at this very moment she was standing watching closely all my
movements. It is by no means comfortable to know that you are being
watched from behind your back. I pulled myself together as well as I could
and proceeded on my way; my legs began to jerk under me, my gait became
unsteady just because I purposely tried to make it look well. In order to
appear at ease and indifferent, I flung my arms about, spat out, and threw
my head well back--all without avail, for I continually felt the pursuing
eyes on my neck, and a cold shiver ran down my back. At length I escaped
down a side street, from which I took the road to Pyle Street to get my
pencil.
I had no difficulty in recovering it; the man brought me the waistcoat
himself, and as he did so, begged me to search through all the pockets.
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