"My beautiful--my goddess!" he called her, and
drew her to his heart.
And she allowed him, allowed herself to be pressed there, while within her
the dull fire smouldered, and the deep, slow resentment gathered like
clouds about the sun. But he held her face now between his two hands and
forced to meet his own her unresponsive eyes; and when with ardour he had
kissed her grave lips, the flippancy of a fool ruined him, and his triumph
was flattened into dust, as when one crushes a puff-ball.
He suddenly held her at arms' length as he was struck by an idea. "Oh, by
the way, I forgot," he said, and looked vaguely across the room. "Claire
is dead."
Sanchia's eyes concentrated and paled. The pupils of them were specks. She
paled to the lips, then slowly flooded as with a tide of sanguine. She
withdrew herself from him; simply dropped him off her. She said nothing;
but she watched him steadily, while within her the masked fire gleamed and
fitfully leapt.
Bravado made him hold on to his airy tone. "She died, I'm told, at
Messina, some time in March. I heard it at Marseilles. Met a man who told
me. Yes! She's dead--and buried."
Sanchia had nothing to say. She looked, however, towards the door--and he
detected that.
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