Page 120 - tender-is-the-night

XIX

Abe left from the Gare Saint Lazare at eleven—he stood
alone under the fouled glass dome, relic of the seventies, era
of the Crystal Palace; his hands, of that vague gray color that
only twenty-four hours can produce, were in his coat pock-
ets to conceal the trembling fingers. With his hat removed
it was plain that only the top layer of his hair was brushed
back—the lower levels were pointed resolutely sidewise. He
was scarcely recognizable as the man who had swum upon
Gausse’s Beach a fortnight ago.
He was early; he looked from left to right with his eyes
only; it would have taken nervous forces out of his control to
use any other part of his body. New-looking baggage went
past him; presently prospective passengers, with dark little
bodies, were calling: ‘Jew-uls-HOO-OO!’ in dark piercing
voices.
At the minute when he wondered whether or not he had
time for a drink at the buffet, and began clutching at the
soggy wad of thousand-franc notes in his pocket, one end
of his pendulous glance came to rest upon the apparition of
Nicole at the stairhead. He watched her—she was self-reve-
latory in her little expressions as people seem to some one
waiting for them, who as yet is himself unobserved. She was
frowning, thinking of her children, less gloating over them
than merely animally counting them—a cat checking her

120 Tender is the Night