"He
really hugged me, Derry. I guess he didn't think I was away past
eighteen. And he wrapped me up in a big oilskin, and we came up here.
And--O Derry, Derry--why did you do it? Why didn't you let me know?
Don't you--want me here?"
He heard, but his mind had swept beyond her to the little cabin in the
edge of the Great Barren where Derwent Conniston lay dead. He heard the
wind moaning, as it had moaned that night the Englishman died, and he
saw again that last and unspoken yearning in Conniston's eyes. And he
knew now why Conniston's face had followed him through the gray gloom
and why he had felt the mysterious presence of him long after he had
gone. Something that was Conniston entered into him now. In the
throbbing chaos of his brain a voice was whispering, "She is yours, she
is yours."
His arms tightened about her, and a voice that was not unlike John
Keith's voice said: "Yes, I want you! I want you!"
X
For a space Keith did not raise his head. The girl's arms were about
him close, and he could feel the warm pressure of her cheek against his
hair. The realization of his crime was already weighing his soul like a
piece of lead, yet out of that soul had come the cry, "I want you--I
want you!" and it still beat with the voice of that immeasurable
yearning even as his lips grew tight and he saw himself the monstrous
fraud he was.
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