How can I possibly hurt you, when I feel to
you as I do?" he went on, with suppressed force.
She said no more, but all her face entreated him to let her off, to
spare her; and as this look deepened, a quick sense of elation and
success began to throb in his heart, for it told him exactly what he
wanted to know. It told him that she was afraid of him, that she had
ceased to trust herself, that the way he had read her nature was the
right way (she was tremendously open to attack, she was meant for love,
she was meant for him), and that his arriving at the point at which he
wished to arrive was only a question of time. This happy consciousness
made him extraordinarily tender to her; he couldn't put enough
reassurance into his smile, his low murmur, as he said: "Only give me
ten minutes; don't receive me by turning me away. It's my holiday--my
poor little holiday; don't spoil it."
Three minutes later Miss Birdseye, looking up from her letter, saw them
move together through the bristling garden and traverse a gap in the old
fence which enclosed the further side of it. They passed into the
ancient shipyard which lay beyond, and which was now a mere vague,
grass-grown approach to the waterside, bestrewn with a few remnants of
supererogatory timber. She saw them stroll forward to the edge of the
bay and stand there, taking the soft breeze in their faces. She watched
them a little, and it warmed her heart to see the stiff-necked young
Southerner led captive by a daughter of New England trained in the right
school, who would impose her opinions in their integrity.
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