"That's right," he nodded. "Keep right on wishing things. That's what I
been doing lately. And wishing things is better than doing them. The way
kids are, that's the best way to be. S'long, Marianne."
She stepped back, trying valiantly to smile, and he raised a cautioning
finger, chuckling: "Look here, now, don't you go to bothering your head
about me. Just save your worrying for this Perris gent."
He clucked to the greys and their sudden start threw him violently
against the back of the seat.
The promise of that start, however, was by no means borne out by the
pace into which they immediately fell, which was a dog-trot executed
with trailing hoofs that raised little wisps of dust at every stride.
She saw the lines slacken and hang loosely to every swing of the
buckboard. Had she not, ten years before, trembled at the sight of this
same team dashing into the road, high-headed, eyes of fire, and the
reins humming with the strength of Oliver Jordan's pull?
The buckboard jolted slowly down the road and swung out of sight, but
Marianne Jordan remained for long moments, staring after her father.
Every time they passed through one of these interviews--and today's
talk had been longer than most--she always felt that she had been pushed
a little farther away from him.
Pages:
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146