I felt inexplicably angry, then preternaturally cool and competent. For
the first time since the Modane episode I was my clear-sighted self.
I had been trying futilely to blindfold my eyes, to explain the
inexplicable, to be unaware of the obvious. Now with a sort of grim
relief I looked the facts in the face.
My hot water appearing, I made a sketchy toilet, and then descended to
the courtyard where I lounged and smoked. My state of mind was peculiar.
As I struck a match I noticed with a queer pride that my hand was
steady. With a cold, almost sardonic clarity, I thought of Miss
Falconer. First a prosperous tourist, next a dweller in an aristocratic
French mansion, then a nurse. She equaled, I told myself, certain
heroines of our Sunday supplements, queens of the smugglers, moving
spirits of the diamond ring.
Upstairs in the right-hand gallery a door opened. A light footstep
sounded on the winding stairs. The critical moment was upon me; she was
coming. I threw away my cigarette and advanced.
She was playing her part, I saw, with due regard for detail.
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