I have so much to say to you."
She led the way in silence. The hand which held up her dress from the
mire trembled a little unseen. But her sense of the impending crisis had
given her more rather than less dignity. She bore her dark head finely,
with that unconscious long-descended instinct of the woman, waiting
to be sued.
They found a path beyond the garden, winding up through a leafless wood.
Marsham talked of indifferent things, and she answered him with spirit,
feeling it all, so far, a queer piece of acting. Then they emerged on
the side of the hill beside a little basin in the chalk, where a gnarled
thorn or two, an overhanging beech, and a bed of withered heather, made
a kind of intimate, furnished place, which appealed to the passer-by.
"Here is the sunset," said Marsham, looking round him. "Are you afraid
to sit a little?"
He took a light overcoat he had been carrying over his arm and spread it
on the heather. She protested that it was winter, and coats were for
wearing. He took no notice, and she tamely submitted. He placed her
regally, with an old thorn for support and canopy; and then he stood a
moment beside her gazing westward.
Pages:
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264