Jacqueline was not within the summer-house; she sat in the doorway, upon the step.

She was not reading.

She sat bowed together, her head upon her folded arms, a figure still and tragic as a sphinx or sibyl.

Rand's eyes upon her roused her from her brooding.

She lifted her head, saw him, and her face, which had been drawn and weary, became like the face of the young dawn.
As Rand crossed the space between them, she rose.