Риф, или Там, где разбивается счастье

XII

           

           ButasshetalkedshebegantoseethatDarrow’sfacegavebacknoreflectionofherwords,thathecontinuedtoweartheabstractedlookofamanwhoisnotlisteningtowhatissaidtohim.Itcausedheraslightpangtodiscoverthathisthoughtscouldwanderatsuchamoment;then,withaflushofjoysheperceivedthereason.

           Insomeundefinablewayshehadbecomeaware,withoutturningherhead,thathewassteepedinthesenseofhernearness,absorbedincontemplatingthedetailsofherfaceanddress;andthediscoverymadethewordsthrongtoherlips.Shefeltherselfspeakwithease,authority,conviction.Shesaidtoherself:“Hedoesn’tcarewhatIsay—it’senoughthatIsayit—evenifit’sstupidhe’lllikemebetterforit...”Sheknewthateveryinflexionofhervoice,everygesture,everycharacteristicofherperson—itsverydefects,thefactthatherforeheadwastoohigh,thathereyeswerenotlargeenough,thatherhands,thoughslender,werenotsmall,andthatthefingersdidnottaper—sheknewthatthesedeficienciesweresomanychannelsthroughwhichherinfluencestreamedtohim;thatshepleasedhiminspiteofthem,perhapsbecauseofthem;thathewantedherasshewas,andnotasshewouldhavelikedtobe;andforthefirsttimeshefeltinherveinsthesecurityandlightnessofhappylove.

           Theyreachedthecourtandwalkedunderthelimestowardthehouse.

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