CHAPTER XIII
IT was midnight and no light was burning. Only through the window there fell the radiance of the city, lying like a pale gleam upon the face of the girl who sat, leaning back against the wall, without moving, with closed eyelids, her hands in her lap.
"Will you never answer me?" asked the great inventor.
Stillness. Silence. Immobility.
"You are colder than stone, harder than any stone. The tip of your finger must cut through the diamond as though it were water...I do not implore your love. What does a girl know of love? Her unstormed fortresses—her unopened Paradises—her sealed-up books, whom no one knows but the god who wrote them—what do you know of love? Women know nothing of love either. What does light know of light? Flame of burning? What do the stars know of the law
