 was still
entangled among trees and buildings. The light was not such that he could
distinctly discern the expression of her features or her glance, but they were
distinctly before him nevertheless - features and a glance which seemed to have
given a fuller meaning for him to the human face. Among his anxieties one was
dominant: his first impression about her, that her mind might be disordered, had
not been quite dissipated: the project of suicide was unmistakeable, and gave a
deeper colour to every other suspicious sign. He longed to begin a conversation,
but abstained, wishing to encourage the confidence that might induce her to
speak first. At last she did speak.
    »I like to listen to the oar.«
    »So do I.«
    »If you had not come, I should have been dead now.«
    »I cannot bear you to speak of that. I hope you will never be sorry that I
came.«
    »I cannot see how I shall be glad to live. The maggior dolore and the
miseria have lasted longer than the tempo felice.« She paused and then went on
dreamily, - »Dolore - miseria - I think those words are alive.«
    Deronda was mute: to question her seemed an unwarrantable freedom; he shrank
from appearing to claim the authority of a benefactor, or to treat her with the
less reverence because she was in distress. She went on, musingly -
    »I thought it was not wicked. Death and life are one before the Eternal. I
know our fathers slew their children and then slew themselves, to keep their
souls pure. I meant it so. But now I am commanded to live. I cannot see how I
shall live.«
    »You will find friends. I will find them for you.«
    She shook her head and said mournfully, »Not my mother and brother. I cannot
find them.«
    »You are English? You must be - speaking English so perfectly.«
    She did not answer immediately, but looked at Deronda again, straining to
see him in the doubtful light. Until now she had been watching the oar. It
seemed as if she were half roused, and wondered which part of her impressions
was dreaming and which waking. Sorrowful isolation had benumbed her sense of
reality, and the power of distinguishing outward and inward was continually
slipping away from her. Her look was full of wondering timidity, such as the
forsaken one in the desert might have lifted to the angelic vision before she
knew whether his message were in anger or in pity.
    »You want to know if I am
