Then she broke out,
with a kind of passion: "I don't care for her assurances--I don't care
for New York! I won't go to them--I won't--do you understand?" Suddenly
her voice changed, she passed her arms round her friend and buried her
face in her neck. "Olive Chancellor, take me away, take me away!" she
went on. In a moment Olive felt that she was sobbing and that the
question was settled, the question she herself had debated in anguish a
couple of hours before.
BOOK THIRD
XXXV
The August night had gathered by the time Basil Ransom, having finished
his supper, stepped out upon the piazza of the little hotel. It was a
very little hotel and of a very slight and loose construction; the tread
of a tall Mississippian made the staircase groan and the windows rattle
in their frames. He was very hungry when he arrived, having not had a
moment, in Boston, on his way through, to eat even the frugal morsel
with which he was accustomed to sustain nature between a breakfast that
consisted of a cup of coffee and a dinner that consisted of a cup of
tea. He had had his cup of tea now, and very bad it was, brought him by
a pale, round-backed young lady, with auburn ringlets, a fancy belt, and
an expression of limited tolerance for a gentleman who could not choose
quickly between fried fish, fried steak, and baked beans. The train for
Marmion left Boston at four o'clock in the afternoon, and rambled
fitfully toward the southern cape, while the shadows grew long in the
stony pastures and the slanting light gilded the straggling, shabby
woods, and painted the ponds and marshes with yellow gleams.
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