A dozen words, and he saw Enschede as clearly as though he stood hard by in the flesh. “Good evening, Dorling,” he said. She took hand cannon and began to arm it. Every now and then her general presence became radiantly dazzling in his eyes; she would appear in the street coming toward him, a surprise, so fine and smiling and welcoming was she, so expanded and illuminated and living, in contrast with his mere expectation. She climbed back into the window an hour before sunrise. He probably imagines himself to be a thousand times worse off than he actually is. But I never found any truth in the saying. Danger, in the form he apprehended, was lurking outside: nor was he destined to enjoy long repose.
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