It was a shock, of course. It always is, to meet people after
long years, especially if they have lived as much and as hard as this woman
had. We stood looking at each other. The eyes that peered anxiously at me
were--simply Antonia's eyes. I had seen no others like them since I looked
into them last, though I had looked at so many thousands of human faces.
As I confronted her, the changes grew less apparent to me, her identity
stronger. She was there, in the full vigour of her personality, battered
but not diminished, looking at me, speaking to me in the husky, breathy
voice I remembered so well.
`My husband's not at home, sir. Can I do anything?'
`Don't you remember me, Antonia? Have I changed so much?'
She frowned into the slanting sunlight that made her brown hair look redder
than it was. Suddenly her eyes widened, her whole face seemed to grow
broader. She caught her breath and put out two hard-worked hands.
`Why, it's Jim! Anna, Yulka, it's Jim Burden!' She had no sooner caught my
hands than she looked alarmed. `What's happened? Is anybody dead?'
I patted her arm.
`No. I didn't come to a funeral this time. I got off the train at Hastings
and drove down to see you and your family.'
She dropped my hand and began rushing about.
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