It was still lean, hard of palm, sinewy
with strength of which most extreme age, indeed, would never entirely
rob it. And the touch of those strong fingers called back to her mind
the picture of Oliver Jordan as he had been, a kingly man among men.
Tears came into the eyes of Marianne.
"But where are you going?" she asked him gently. "And why do you never
let me go with you, dear?"
"You?" he chuckled. "Waste time driving out nowheres with an old codger
like me? I didn't give you all that schooling to have you throw your
life away doing things like that. Don't you bother about me, Marianne.
I'm just going to drift over yonder around Jackson Peak. You see?"
"But who is there, and what is there?"
He merely rubbed his knuckles across his forehead and then shook his
head. "I dunno. Nothing much. It's tolerable quiet, though. And you get
the smell of the pines the minute the trail starts climbing. Sort of a
lazy place to go, but then I've turned into a lazy man, honey. Just
sitting and thinking is about all I'm good for, or most like just the
sitting without the thinking. Why, Marianne, where'd you get them
tears?"
She choked them back.
"I wish--I wish--" she began.
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