Dear, sweet Sancie!
There was bravado here on his part, and nervousness to be discerned
beneath it; for it is most certain that her reverie was not exactly as he
would have it. Her chin was in her hand, her caught other hand lay idle in
his own; her eyes were far-gazing and sombre; her smile was bleak.
Whatever she heard, whatever she thought of, she betrayed nothing.
Her brooding calm spurred him in that sensitive spot whose throb or ache
tells a man whether he is centre of a woman's mind or not. He must know
whether she was glad to have him back; the wanderer returned, eh? She had
not told him so yet, he must observe; no, nor looked it. She was
mysterious, it seemed to him. "And you can speak with your eyes, my dear;
none better. Your tongue was never very loose; but your eyes! Now, you
know what you can do with them, Sancie; you know very well. Speak to me,
then, my dear, speak to me. Speak to me only with thine ... no, not
_only!_ You can speak in a thousand ways--with your hands, with the tips
of your fingers placed here or there, with a bend of the head on that
lovely neck you have, with your faint colour, with your quick breath." ...
Fired by his own words, he worked himself into enthusiasm, was enamoured
of what himself proclaimed.
Pages:
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100