他现在像个情人一样地追求着她。当他冲动时，她常常双手捧着他的脸，深深地凝望着他的眼睛。他不能正视她的凝视，她那充满深情和真挚的黑眼睛，像在探求着什么，这让他不由得避开了。她让他一刻也不能忘怀。等恢复平静后，他又深受自己对她的责任感的折磨， 他始终不能心平气静，老处于焦虑和紧张的状态，从未放纵过自己饥渴的情欲和本能的性欲冲动，他强迫自己记住自己要做一个审慎和多思的人。仿佛总是米丽亚姆把他从狂热的情欲中唤回到个人关系的小天地中来。他实在忍受不了这样。他想大喊：“别管我，别管我！”。可她却让他充满深情地望着她。而他那双充满蒙昧和本能情欲的眼睛却不属于她。

    农场的樱桃大丰收。屋后的樱桃树又高又大，茂密的枝叶下果实累累，红红的一片散挂在绿叶中。一天傍晚，保罗和艾德加一起摘樱桃。那是个大热天，天空乌云翻滚，天气昏暗闷热。保罗高高地爬在树上，高踞房子的红屋顶上，微风吹过，整棵树轻轻地摇晃起来，晃得保罗心神荡漾。这个年轻人摇摇欲坠地攀在细枝上，被树摇晃得有点头晕，于是他顺着挂满红珠般樱桃的树干往下溜。他伸手摘下一串串光滑冰凉的果实，樱桃磨擦着他的耳朵和脖子，凉嗖嗖的，舒服极了。此时一片深浅不同的红荫跃入他的眼帘，有灿烂的朱砂红， 有鲜艳的鲜红，在幽暗的绿叶下显得光彩夺目。

    西落的夕阳，突然钻进飘荡的乱云，壮观的金光照彻东南方，在天空堆起层层柔和的黄色晚霞。原本是暮色沉沉的世界此刻被金黄色的晚霞映得发亮，令人感到惊异。绿树和青草，以及远处的湖水都在霞光的照射下惊醒了。

    米丽亚姆惊异地走了出来。

    “嗨！”保罗听到她那圆润的嗓音在喊：“这么美啊！”

    他往下看，只见一抹淡淡的金光从她脸上掠过，看上去柔和极了，她正仰望着他。

    “你爬得多高啊！”她说。

    在她身旁，四只死鸟躺在大黄叶上，那是偷吃樱桃时被击毙的。保罗看见树枝上吊着几颗樱桃核，象骷髅似的，果肉被啄光了。 他又往下看了看米丽亚姆。

    “云彩像在着火，” 他说。

    “真美！”她叫道。

    她站在下面，显得那么娇小，那么温柔可人。他给她扔下一把樱桃，把她吓了一跳。他低声格格笑着，向她不断扔着樱桃。她捡起几颗樱桃，就慌忙跑开。她把两小串樱桃挂在耳朵上，然后又抬头看着他。

    “你还没有摘够吗？”她问。

    “快了。爬这么高就像乘船似的。”

    “你要在上面呆多久？”

    “直到太阳下山。”

    她走到篱笆边坐了下来，看着那纷纷碎裂的金黄色的彩云随着暮色渐浓，汇成了一大片玫瑰色的断层云。火一般的金黄色变成了鲜红色，仿佛上天的心情痛苦到了极点，接着鲜红色褪成了玫瑰红，继而又变成深红，很快，上天那股火一般的热情平息了下来，整个世界又融入一片苍茫。保罗匆匆地提着篮子溜下树把衬衣袖子给钩破了。

    “真可爱啊。”米丽亚姆摸着樱桃说。

    “我的袖子也给撕破了。”他说。

    她揭起被撕成三角形的裂口说：

    “我来给你补一下吧。”裂口靠近肩膀，她把手指伸了进去说：“多暖和啊！”

    他笑了， 笑声中含有一种新奇的声音，让她不禁心跳加速。

    “咱俩到外面去好吗？” 他说。

    “会不会下雨啊？”她问。

    “不会的，咱们就散会儿步。”

    他们沿着田野 走进茂密的冷杉和松树林。

    “我们到树林中去好吗？”他问。

    “你想去？”

    “是的。”

    冷杉林中一片昏暗，尖锐的杉针刺痛了她的脸。她有些害怕。保罗一直沉默着，神色很古怪。

    “我喜欢呆在黑暗里，”他说，“我希望树林再密一些，那黑暗更惬意。”

    他看上去简直忘了她的存在，这时对他来说，她只不过是个女人罢了。她害怕了。

    保罗背靠着一棵松树站着，把她搂进怀里，她任他摆布，不过，这是一种自我牺牲，她多少感到这种自我牺牲中有一种可怕的东西。此时这个声音沙哑，神情恍惚的男人简直就是一个陌生人。

    不久，下起了雨。松香味四处弥漫。保罗头枕松针躺在地上，听着刺耳刷刷啦啦的雨声——一种持续不断的噪音。他的情绪低沉。此时，他才明白，她从来没有和自己息息相通过，她的灵魂处于恐惧状态，对他敬而远之。他仅仅获得了肉欲的满足，只此而已。他的内心凄凄忧伤，思绪万千，他的手指爱怜地抚摸着她的脸。她又深深地爱上他了。

    他是多么温柔而英俊。

    “下雨了！”他说。

    “嗯，淋着你了吗？”

    她把双手伸到他身上，抚摸着他的头发，他的肩膀，看雨是不是淋着了他。她是深深地爱着他。他脸贴着枯叶侧身躺着，心情特别宁静。他根本不在乎雨点是否落到了身上，他会那么躺着，直到浑身湿透，因为他感觉一切都变得无所谓了，仿佛他的生命已在散去，他已经进入了一个妙不可言的彼岸世界。这种不知不党中濒临死亡的奇怪的感觉对他来说十分新鲜。

    “我们得走了。”米丽亚姆说。

    “是的。”他回答着，却一动不动。

    他此刻感到，生命仿佛就是一个影子，白天是一个白色的影子；夜晚、死亡、寂静和休止，这些才是生命的真实存在。而活力、热切、操守那才是虚无缥缈的东西。人生的最高境界就是融入黑暗之中，飘然而去，投入上帝的怀抱，与上帝同在。

    “雨就要下到我们身上了。”米丽亚姆说。

    他起身搀扶她。

    “真遗憾。”他说。

    “为什么？”

    “ 我们得离开这儿。我觉得这儿很安静。”

    “安静？”她重复了一遍。

    “我一生从来没有这么安静过。”

    她牵着他的手走着，她的手指抓得紧紧的心里隐隐有些害怕，此时他似乎超越了她，她害怕失去他。

    “这些冷杉树在黑暗处象个鬼怪，每棵冷杉树都是一个鬼怪精灵。”

    她有些害怕，沉默无言。

    “一片寂静，整个夜晚都在沉思，在昏睡，我想我们死后就是这样——莫名其妙的昏睡。”

    她以前害怕面对他身上的那种兽性，此时却害怕他神秘莫测的样子。她一声不响地在他身旁走着，雨点打在树上，发出的啪嗒啪嗒的响声。他们终于走到了车棚。

    “我们在这呆一会吧。”他说。

    到处是浙浙沥沥的雨声，湮没了一切声息。

    “和自然界万事万物在一起，我觉得非常奇妙，非常宁静。”他说道。

    “嗳。”她耐心地答道。

    虽然他紧紧地握着她的手，可心里又似乎忘记了她在身边。

    “放弃我们的个性，不再追求，不再努力——无所用心地活着，神志清醒的睡着——那是非常奇妙，那就是我们的来世——我们的永生的未来。”

    “是吗？”

    “是的——能够这样生活是非常美妙的。”

    “你不常说这些。”

    “是的。”

    一会儿后，他们进了屋。屋里的每个人都好奇地看着他们。不过，保罗的眼睛依旧保持着那种平静而沉闷的神色，语调也依然保持着平和。自然大家都不去理会他。

    这期间，米丽亚姆住在伍德林顿一所小屋里，姥姥病了，家里就派米丽亚姆去料理家务。那是个别致而小巧的地方，屋前有个红砖墙围着的大花园，紧靠墙根种着梅树。屋后还有一个花园，四周环绕着一排高高的杨树篱，把园子与田野隔开。这儿的景色非常优美。米丽亚姆也没有什么事可干，所以她有不少时间来读她喜爱的书籍，写些自己感兴趣的思想随笔.

    假日里，姥姥的身体渐有好转，就被送到德比的女儿家小住一两日。老太太脾气古怪也可能在第二天或第三天就回来，所以米丽亚姆独自一人留在小屋里，不过她倒也乐意这样。

    保罗经常骑自行车经过，他俩照例过着平静快乐的日子。他也没有太为难她，到了星期一休息时，他就和她一起度过一整天。

    这天天气晴朗，他告诉母亲要去哪儿，就离开家。这一整天母亲又得独自一人度过，想到这点，他心头不禁笼罩上一片阴影。不过，这三天假日是属于他自己的，他要干自己 想干的事。保罗喜欢在清晨骑着自行车在小街上飞行。

    大约十一点钟，他来到了小屋。米丽亚姆正忙着准备午饭，她面色红润，忙忙碌碌，看上去那模样与这小厨房十分协调。他吻了她后。就坐下来打量着这屋子。屋子虽小，却很舒适，沙发上罩着方格图案的亚麻布套子红蓝相间，虽然用旧了，也洗褪了色，但依然漂亮。墙角碗柜架子上放着一只猎头鹰的标本，阳光穿过香气四溢的天竺葵叶照进窗于。她正为他烹煮着鸡。这一天，小屋就是他俩的天地，他俩就是丈夫和妻子。他帮她打蛋、削土豆皮，他觉得她创造的家庭气氛，几乎和自己母亲所创造的一样，当她在炉边被烤得脸色通红，卷发散乱，看上去美极了，似乎没有人会比她更美。

    这顿午饭极尽人意。他象个年轻的丈夫，切着餐桌上的肉。他们一直热情洋溢，滔滔不绝地聊着。午饭后，她洗碗碟，他来擦干，两人一起来到田野上散步。田野中一条波光粼粼的小溪流入陡峭的堤岸下的泥塘中。他俩在那里漫步，采了一些残留的立金花和大朵的蓝色的勿忘 我草。她双手捧着鲜花，其中大多是金黄的水荸萝，坐在堤岸上。她把脸俯在立金花里，脸上映出一抹金黄的光辉。

    “你满脸生辉，象耶稣的变形像。”

    她带着疑惑的神色望着他。 他讨饶似地对她笑着， 把手搁在她的手上，然后吻了吻她的手指，又吻了吻她的脸。

    万物沐浴着阳光，四周一片宁静，但它们并没有睡过去，只是在期待中颤抖着。

    “我从来没有见过比这更美的景色。”他说，手里一直紧紧握着她的手。

    “河水唱着歌欢快地流着——你喜欢吗？”她充满爱意地望着他。他那乌黑的眼睛闪闪发光。

    “难道你不认为今天是难得的一天吗？”他问。

    她喃喃地表示赞同。他看得出来她非常愉快。

    “这是我们的节日——就我们俩。”他说。

    他们又逗留了一会，接着两人从芳香的花丛中站起身，他天真地俯视着她。

    “你想回吗？”他问道。

    他们手拉着手默默地回了家。鸡群咯咯地叫着乱哄哄地沿着小路向她奔去。他锁上门，小屋就成了他俩的天下了。

    他永远也不会忘记自己在解衣领时，看见她躺在床上的那副模样。开始，他只看到她的美，觉得眼花缭乱。她的身段美极了，他做梦都没想到她如此之美。他愣愣地站在那儿，一动不动，一句话也说不出来，只是脸上露出惊讶的微笑望着她。他想要她了，可是他刚向她迎上 去时，她举起双手做了个恳求的动作，他看了看她的脸，站住了。她那双褐色的大眼睛迎望着他，一动不动，充满爱意，露出任凭摆布的神情。她躺在那儿，仿佛已经准备做出牺牲；她的肉体正在期待他；可她的眼神就象等待屠宰的牲口阻挠着他，他浑身的热血一下子冷却了。

    “你确实 想要我吗？”仿佛一团冷冷的阴影笼罩着他，他不禁这样问道。

    “是的，我确实想要。”

    她好象非常沉静，非常镇定，只是意识到自己在为他做着什么。 他简直有些受不了。她躺在那儿准备为他做出牺牲，因为她是那么爱他，他只有牺牲她了，有一刹那，他希望自己没有性欲或者死去。他朝她又闭上眼睛，热血又沸腾起来。

    事后，他更爱她了——全身心地爱她。他爱她，但不知怎的，他竟想哭。他不能忍受她那样为他做出牺牲。他和她一直呆到深夜。骑车回家时，他感觉自己终于跨出了一步，他不再是个毛头小伙子了。可是为什么他内心总是隐隐作痛呢？为什么他一想到死，一 想到来世，反而感到那么亲切，那么宽慰呢？

    他和米丽亚姆一起度 过了一个星期，激情洋溢的他弄得米丽亚姆疲惫不堪才肯罢休。他总是一意孤行，丝毫不顾及她，任凭感情鲁莽行事。他不能经常干这种事，因为事后往往留下一种失败和死亡的感觉。如果真想和她在一起，他就得抛开自己和自己的欲念。如果想占有她，他就得抛开她。

    “当我每次要你的时候，其实你并不是真正 想要我，对不对？”他的黑眼睛带着痛苦而羞愧的神情问道。

    “嗳，是的。”她赶紧回答。

    他看着她。

    “不。”她说道。

    她开始颤抖起来。

    “你知道，”她说着，捧着他的脸，把它贴在自己肩上——“你知道——象我们现在这样——我怎么能习惯你呢？如果我们结了婚，那么一切就好了。”

    他托起她的头，看着她。

    He courted her now like a lover. Often, when he grew hot, she put his face from her, held it between her hands, and looked in his eyes. He could not meet her gaze. Her dark eyes, full of love, earnest and searching, made him turn away. Not for an instant would she let him forget. Back again he had to torture himself into a sense of his responsibility and hers. Never any relaxing, never any leaving himself to the great hunger and impersonality of passion; he must be brought back to a deliberate, reflective creature. As if from a swoon of passion she caged him back to the littleness, the personal relationship. He could not bear it. "Leave me alone--leave me alone!" he wanted to cry; but she wanted him to look at her with eyes full of love. His eyes, full of the dark, impersonal fire of desire, did not belong to her.    

    There was a great crop of cherries at the farm. The trees at the back of the house, very large and tall, hung thick with scarlet and crimson drops, under the dark leaves. Paul and Edgar were gathering the fruit one evening. It had been a hot day, and now the clouds were rolling in the sky, dark and warm. Paul combed high in the tree, above the scarlet roofs of the buildings. The wind, moaning steadily, made the whole tree rock with a subtle, thrilling motion that stirred the blood. The young man, perched insecurely in the slender branches, rocked till he felt slightly drunk, reached down the boughs, where the scarlet beady cherries hung thick underneath, and tore off handful after handful of the sleek, cool-fleshed fruit. Cherries touched his ears and his neck as he stretched forward, their chill finger-tips sending a flash down his blood. All shades of red, from a golden vermilion to a rich crimson, glowed and met his eyes under a darkness of leaves.

    The sun, going down, suddenly caught the broken clouds. Immense piles of gold flared out in the south-east, heaped in soft, glowing yellow right up the sky. The world, till now dusk and grey, reflected the gold glow, astonished. Everywhere the trees, and the grass, and the far-off water, seemed roused from the twilight and shining.

    Miriam came out wondering.

    "Oh!" Paul heard her mellow voice call, "isn't it wonderful?"

    He looked down. There was a faint gold glimmer on her face, that looked very soft, turned up to him.

    "How high you are!" she said.

    Beside her, on the rhubarb leaves, were four dead birds, thieves that had been shot. Paul saw some cherry stones hanging quite bleached, like skeletons, picked clear of flesh. He looked down again to Miriam.

    "Clouds are on fire," he said.

    "Beautiful!" she cried.

    She seemed so small, so soft, so tender, down there. He threw a handful of cherries at her. She was startled and frightened. He laughed with a low, chuckling sound, and pelted her. She ran for shelter, picking up some cherries. Two fine red pairs she hung over her ears; then she looked up again.

    "Haven't you got enough?" she asked.

    "Nearly. It is like being on a ship up here."

    "And how long will you stay?"

    "While the sunset lasts."

    She went to the fence and sat there, watching the gold clouds fall to pieces, and go in immense, rose-coloured ruin towards the darkness. Gold flamed to scarlet, like pain in its intense brightness. Then the scarlet sank to rose, and rose to crimson, and quickly the passion went out of the sky. All the world was dark grey. Paul scrambled quickly down with his basket, tearing his shirt-sleeve as he did so.

    "They are lovely," said Miriam, fingering the cherries.

    "I've torn my sleeve," he answered.

    She took the three-cornered rip, saying:

    "I shall have to mend it." It was near the shoulder. She put her fingers through the tear. "How warm!" she said.

    He laughed. There was a new, strange note in his voice, one that made her pant.

    "Shall we stay out?" he said.

    "Won't it rain?" she asked.

    "No, let us walk a little way."

    They went down the fields and into the thick plantation of trees and pines.

    "Shall we go in among the trees?" he asked.

    "Do you want to?"

    "Yes."

    It was very dark among the firs, and the sharp spines pricked her face. She was afraid. Paul was silent and strange.

    "I like the darkness," he said. "I wish it were thicker--good, thick darkness."

    He seemed to be almost unaware of her as a person: she was only to him then a woman. She was afraid.

    He stood against a pine-tree trunk and took her in his arms. She relinquished herself to him, but it was a sacrifice in which she felt something of horror. This thick-voiced, oblivious man was a stranger to her.

    Later it began to rain. The pine-trees smelled very strong. Paul lay with his head on the ground, on the dead pine needles, listening to the sharp hiss of the rain--a steady, keen noise. His heart was down, very heavy. Now he realised that she had not been with him all the time, that her soul had stood apart, in a sort of horror. He was physically at rest, but no more. Very dreary at heart, very sad, and very tender, his fingers wandered over her face pitifully. Now again she loved him deeply.

    He was tender and beautiful.

    "The rain!" he said.

    "Yes--is it coming on you?"

    She put her hands over him, on his hair, on his shoulders, to feel if the raindrops fell on him. She loved him dearly. He, as he lay with his face on the dead pine-leaves, felt extraordinarily quiet. He did not mind if the raindrops came on him: he would have lain and got wet through: he felt as if nothing mattered, as if his living were smeared away into the beyond, near and quite lovable. This strange, gentle reaching-out to death was new to him.

    "We must go," said Miriam.

    "Yes," he answered, but did not move.

    To him now, life seemed a shadow, day a white shadow; night, and death, and stillness, and inaction, this seemed like BEING. To be alive, to be urgent and insistent--that was NOT-TO-BE. The highest of all was to melt out into the darkness and sway there, identified with the great Being.

    "The rain is coming in on us," said Miriam.

    He rose, and assisted her.

    "It is a pity," he said.

    "What?"

    "To have to go. I feel so still."

    "Still!" she repeated.

    "Stiller than I have ever been in my life."

    He was walking with his hand in hers. She pressed his fingers, feeling a slight fear. Now he seemed beyond her; she had a fear lest she should lose him.

    "The fir-trees are like presences on the darkness: each one only a presence."

    She was afraid, and said nothing.

    "A sort of hush: the whole night wondering and asleep: I suppose that's what we do in death--sleep in wonder."

    She had been afraid before of the brute in him: now of the mystic. She trod beside him in silence. The rain fell with a heavy "Hush!" on the trees. At last they gained the cartshed.

    "Let us stay here awhile," he said.

    There was a sound of rain everywhere, smothering everything.

    "I feel so strange and still," he said; "along with everything."

    "Ay," she answered patiently.

    He seemed again unaware of her, though he held her hand close.

    "To be rid of our individuality, which is our will, which is our effort--to live effortless, a kind of curious sleep--that is very beautiful, I think:that is our after-life--our immortality."

    "Yes?"

    "Yes--and very beautiful to have."

    "You don't usually say that."

     "No."

    In a while they went indoors. Everybody looked at them curiously. He still kept the quiet, heavy look in his eyes, the stillness in his voice. Instinctively, they all left him alone.

    About this time Miriam's grandmother, who lived in a tiny cottage in Woodlinton, fell ill, and the girl was sent to keep house. It was a beautiful little place. The cottage had a big garden in front, with red brick walls, against which the plum trees were nailed. At the back another garden was separated from the fields by a tall old hedge. It was very pretty. Miriam had not much to do, so she found time for her beloved reading, and for writing little introspective pieces which interested her.

    At the holiday-time her grandmother, being better, was driven to Derby to stay with her daughter for a day or two. She was a crotchety old lady, and might return the second day or the third; so Miriam stayed alone in the cottage, which also pleased her.

    Paul used often to cycle over, and they had as a rule peaceful and happy times. He did not embarrass her much; but then on the Monday of the holiday he was to spend a whole day with her.

    It was perfect weather. He left his mother, telling her where he was going. She would be alone all the day. It cast a shadow over him; but he had three days that were all his own, when he was going to do as he liked. It was sweet to rush through the morning lanes on his bicycle.

    He got to the cottage at about eleven o'clock. Miriam was busy preparing dinner. She looked so perfectly in keeping with the little kitchen, ruddy and busy. He kissed her and sat down to watch. The room was small and cosy. The sofa was covered all over with a sort of linen in squares of red and pale blue, old, much washed, but pretty. There was a stuffed owl in a case over a corner cupboard. The sunlight came through the leaves of the scented geraniums in the window. She was cooking a chicken in his honour. It was their cottage for the day, and they were man and wife. He beat the eggs for her and peeled the potatoes. He thought she gave a feeling of home almost like his mother; and no one could look more beautiful, with her tumbled curls, when she was flushed from the fire.

    The dinner was a great success. Like a young husband, he carved. They talked all the time with unflagging zest. Then he wiped the dishes she had washed, and they went out down the fields. There was a bright little brook that ran into a bog at the foot of a very steep bank. Here they wandered, picking still a few marsh-marigolds and many big blue forget-me-nots. Then she sat on the bank with her hands full of flowers, mostly golden water-blobs. As she put her face down into the marigolds, it was all overcast with a yellow shine.

    "Your face is bright," he said, "like a transfiguration."

    She looked at him, questioning. He laughed pleadingly to her, laying his hands on hers. Then he kissed her fingers, then her face.

    The world was all steeped in sunshine, and quite still, yet not asleep, but quivering with a kind of expectancy.

    "I have never seen anything more beautiful than this," he said. He held her hand fast all the time.

    "And the water singing to itself as it runs--do you love it?" She looked at him full of love. His eyes were very dark, very bright.

    "Don't you think it's a great day?" he asked.

    She murmured her assent. She WAS happy, and he saw it.

    "And our day--just between us," he said.

    They lingered a little while. Then they stood up upon the sweet thyme, and he looked down at her simply.

    "Will you come?" he asked.

    They went back to the house, hand in hand, in silence. The chickens came scampering down the path to her. He locked the door, and they had the little house to themselves.

    He never forgot seeing her as she lay on the bed, when he was unfastening his collar. First he saw only her beauty, and was blind with it. She had the most beautiful body he had ever imagined. He stood unable to move or speak, looking at her, his face half-smiling with wonder. And then he wanted her, but as he went forward to her, her hands lifted in a little pleading movement, and he looked at her face, and stopped. Her big brown eyes were watching him, still and resigned and loving; she lay as if she had given herself up to sacrifice: there was her body for him; but the look at the back of her eyes, like a creature awaiting immolation, arrested him, and all his blood fell back.

    "You are sure you want me?" he asked, as if a cold shadow had come over him.

    "Yes, quite sure."

She was very quiet, very calm. She only realised that she was doing something for him. He could hardly bear it. She lay to be sacrificed for him because she loved him so much. And he had to sacrifice her. For a second, he wished he were sexless or dead. Then he shut his eyes again to her, and his blood beat back again.

    And afterwards he loved her--loved her to the last fibre of his being. He loved her. But he wanted, somehow, to cry. There was something he could not bear for her sake. He stayed with her till quite late at night. As he rode home he felt that he was finally initiated. He was a youth no longer. But why had he the dull pain in his soul? Why did the thought of death, the after-life, seem so sweet and consoling?

    He spent the week with Miriam, and wore her out with his passion before it was gone. He had always, almost wilfully, to put her out of count, and act from the brute strength of his own feelings. And he could not do it often, and there remained afterwards always the sense of failure and of death. If he were really with her, he had to put aside himself and his desire. If he would have her, he had to put her aside.

    "When I come to you," he asked her, his eyes dark with pain and shame, "you don't really want me, do you?"

    "Ah, yes!" she replied quickly.

    He looked at her.

    "Nay," he said.

    She began to tremble.

    "You see," she said, taking his face and shutting it out against her shoulder--"you see--as we are--how can I get used to you? It would come all right if we were married."

    He lifted her head, and looked at her.