It isn't she," he murmured, opening the door.
He squeezed her hands and thanked her for being so punctual.
She said she was not feeling well.

"I came only because I didn't want to keep you waiting in vain." His heart sank.
"I have a fearful headache," she said, passing her gloved hands over her forehead.
He took her furs and motioned her to the armchair.

Prepared to follow his plan of attack, he sat down on the stool, but she refused the armchair and took a seat beside the table.

Rising, he bent over her and caught hold of her fingers.
"Your hand is burning," she said.
"Yes, a bit of fever, because I get so little sleep.

If you knew how much I have thought about you! Now I have you here, all to myself," and he spoke of that persistent odour of cinnamon, faint, distant, expiring amid the less definite odours which her gloves exhaled, "well," and he sniffed her fingers, "you will leave some of yourself here when you go away." She rose, sighing.