He saw a section of wall at first, dimly illuminated; then a
small table near the window covered with books and magazines, and beside
it a reclining chair buried thick under a great white bear robe. On the
table, but beyond his vision, was the lamp. He drew himself a few inches
more through the snow, leaning still farther ahead, until he saw the
foot of a white bed. A little more and he stopped, his white face close
to the window-pane.
On the bed, facing him, sat Meleese. Her chin was buried in the cup of
her hands, and he noticed that she was in a dressing-gown and that her
beautiful hair was loosed and flowing in glistening waves about her, as
though she had just brushed it for the night. A movement, a slight
shifting of her eyes, and she would have seen him.
He was filled with an almost mastering impulse to press his face closer,
to tap on the window, to draw her eyes to him, but even as his hand rose
to do the bidding of that impulse something restrained him. Slowly the
girl lifted her head, and he was thrilled to find that another impulse
drew him back until his ghostly face was a part of the elusive
snow-gloom. He watched her as she turned from him and threw back the
glory of her hair until it half hid her in a mass of copper and gold;
from his distance he still gazed at her, choking and undecided, while
she gathered it in three heavy strands and plaited it into a
shining braid.
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