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Conrad, Joseph, 1857-1924

"The Arrow of Gold"

I threw away the pillows from which she had risen
and sat down behind her on the couch. "Perhaps like this," I
suggested, drawing her head gently on my breast. She didn't
resist, she didn't even sigh, she didn't look at me or attempt to
settle herself in any way. It was I who settled her after taking
up a position which I thought I should be able to keep for hours--
for ages. After a time I grew composed enough to become aware of
the ticking of the clock, even to take pleasure in it. The beat
recorded the moments of her rest, while I sat, keeping as still as
if my life depended upon it with my eyes fixed idly on the arrow of
gold gleaming and glittering dimly on the table under the lowered
gas-jet. And presently my breathing fell into the quiet rhythm of
the sleep which descended on her at last. My thought was that now
nothing mattered in the world because I had the world safe resting
in my arms--or was it in my heart?
Suddenly my heart seemed torn in two within my breast and half of
my breath knocked out of me. It was a tumultuous awakening. The
day had come. Dona Rita had opened her eyes, found herself in my
arms, and instantly had flung herself out of them with one sudden
effort.


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