The ice was
limitless, and of a dirty grey pallor, with black shadows streaking it.
My island must have looked desolate enough, with its dirty snow-heaps,
old boards and scrap-iron and tumbledown cottages.
Again, as on his first arrival in Petrograd, Henry was faced by the
solemn fact that events are so often romantic in retrospect, but grimly
realistic in experience. He reached my lodging and found the door open.
He climbed the dark rickety stairs and entered my sitting-room. The
blinds were not drawn, and the red moon peered through on to the grey
shadows that the ice beyond always flung. The stove was not burning, the
room was cold and deserted. Henry called my name and there was no
answer. He went into my bedroom and there was no one there. He came back
and stood there listening.
He could hear the creaking of some bar beyond the window and the
melancholy whistle of a distant train.
He was held there, as though spellbound. Suddenly he thought that he
heard some one climbing the stairs. He gave a cry, and that was answered
by a movement so close to him that it was almost at his elbow.
"Who's there?" he cried.
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