Peter Walsh had got up and crossed to the window and stood with his back to her, flicking

a bandanna handkerchief from side to side. Masterly and dry and desolate he looked, his thin shoulder-blades lifting his coat slightly; blowing his nose violently. Take me with you, Clarissa thought impulsively, as if he were starting directly upon some great voyage; and then, next moment, it was as if the five acts of a play that had been very exciting and moving were now over and she had lived a lifetime in them and had run away, had lived with Peter, and it was now over. Now it was time to move, and, as a woman gathers her things together, her cloak, her gloves, her operaglasses, and gets up to go out of the theatre into the street, she rose from the sofa and went to Peter. And it was awfully strange, he thought, how she still had the power, as she came tinkling, rustling, still had the power as she came across the room, to make the moon, which he detested, rise at Bourton on the terrace in the summer sky. Tell me, he said, seizing her by the shoulders. Are you happy, Clarissa? Does Richard The door opened. Here is my Elizabeth, said Clarissa, emotionally, histrionically, perhaps. How dy do? said Elizabeth coming forward.