It was, I
think, very significant of Lawrence's character and his
unEnglish-English tradition that the first thing that he felt was the
pathos of it. No other Englishman in Petrograd would have seen that at
all.
Wilderling was crouched in the corner against a piece of gold Japanese
embroidery. He was in the shadow, away from the window, which was pushed
open sufficiently to allow the muzzle of the rifle to slip between the
woodwork and the pane. The old man, his white hair disordered, his
clothes dusty, and his hands grimy, crept forward just as Lawrence
entered, fired down into the side-street, then moved swiftly back into
his corner again. He muttered to himself without ceasing in French,
"Chiens! Chiens!... Chiens!" He was very hot, and he stopped for a
moment to wipe the sweat from his forehead, then he saw Lawrence.
"What do you want?" he asked, as though he didn't recognize him.
Lawrence moved down the side of the room, avoiding the window. He
touched the little man's arm.
"I say, you know," he said, "this won't do."
Wilderling smelt of gunpowder, and he was breathing hard as though he
had been running desperately.
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