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Updated: June 15, 2025
I must find some way to occupy my mind." She thought of mastering another language; for like many persons of similar temperament she found the learning of foreign tongues a simple matter. But what language? Already she knew French, Italian, and German. Russian, then? She recoiled from that thought, associated as it was with Anna Zanidov. Sitting down at the piano, she played Chopin.
For a moment she thought that she had seen Madame Zanidov also, trailing her barbaric gown away through a shaft of moonlight. It was mid-afternoon when Lilla emerged from her room. A servant informed her that "everybody" was motoring or playing golf. She entered the library, lustrous with its rows of books and its deep-toned paintings hung against wooden panels.
Lilla was approaching the music room doorway round which some men were standing with the respectful looks of persons at the funeral of a stranger when a laughing young woman intercepted her. "Do come over here. Madame Zanidov is telling our fortunes."
In those nightmares of hers, however, he was still a man, subject to mortal tragedy. Waking with a cry, she discerned, in the act of fading away against the curtains, the dead-white, wedge-shaped face of Anna Zanidov. One day she closed the villa and went swiftly to Lausanne.
At last she dozed, to dream that Hamoud had confronted a lion just as the beast was about to pounce upon Madame Zanidov, who, wearing the dress of oxidized silver barbarically painted, crouched in a moonlit clearing. "No, Hamoud, let him have her!" Hamoud, with a smile, stood aside. Then she saw Lawrence approaching, his face and body wrapped in a white cloth.
With her eyelids pressed together, she began: "You are sitting alone. You are writing letters, which will pass through many hands of different colors. One would think that those hands would grow warm from touching your letters. Now you are not writing any more letters. You are wearing a black dress." Madame Zanidov leaned forward as if striving with her closed eyes to pierce a sudden opacity.
Anna Petrovna Zanidov, one of the Russian aristocrats that the revolution had scattered through the world, was a thin, black-haired woman with a faintly Tartar cast of countenance, a dead-white complexion that made her seem denser than ordinary flesh, and somewhat the look of an idol before whose blank yet sophisticated eyes had been performed many extraordinary rites.
Fallows has really done wonders, hasn't he?" "Wonders," Lilla echoed with a smile. In the hall, as she was leaving, Fanny Brassfield said to Lilla: "By the way, Anna Zanidov is in town. She was asking after you." Without moving, Lilla murmured slowly: "Ah, she wants to tell my fortune again, perhaps?" "She stopped doing that. It got too uncanny.
And when Lilla had shaken her head, the blonde, lean temptress exclaimed in exasperation: "I declare, you're no good to anybody any more!" A sleek-looking man in riding clothes stepped down into the box. Fanny Brassfield, who had been craning her neck indignantly, disregarded his outstretched hand to give his arm a push, while crying out: "Go get her for me, Jimmy. Anna Zanidov.
A pallid, black-haired woman with pendent earrings a woman who rather resembled Anna Zanidov was playing a sea-piece by MacDowell in the light of a tall lamp. The hall door swung open; the unsympathetic face and square shoulders of David Verne's attendant appeared above the back of the wheel chair.
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