Риф, или Там, где разбивается счастье

XII

           “IfIlooklikethistoday,”shesaidtoherself,“whatwillhethinkofmewhenI’millorworried?”Shebegantorunherfingersthroughherhair,rejoicinginitsthickness;thenshedesistedandsatstill,restingherchinonherhands.

           “IwanthimtoseemeasIam,”shethought.

           Deeperthanthedeepestfibreofhervanitywasthetriumphantsensethatasshewas,withherflattenedhair,hertiredpallor,herthinsleevesalittletumbledbytheweightofherjacket,hewouldlikeherevenbetter,feelhernearer,dearer,moredesirable,thaninallthesplendoursshemightputonforhim.Inthelightofthisdiscoveryshestudiedherfacewithanewintentness,seeingitsdefectsasshehadneverseenthem,yetseeingthemthroughakindofradiance,asthoughlovewerealuminousmediumintowhichshehadbeenbodilyplunged.

           Shewasgladnowthatshehadconfessedherdoubtsandherjealousy.Shedivinedthatamaninlovemaybeflatteredbysuchinvoluntarybetrayals,thattherearemomentswhenrespectforhislibertyappealstohimlessthantheinabilitytorespectit:momentssopropitiousthatawoman’sverymistakesandindiscretionsmayhelptoestablishherdominion.ThesenseofpowershehadbeenawareofintalkingtoDarrowcamebackwithten-foldforce.Shefeltliketestinghimbythemostfantasticexactions,andatthesamemomentshelongedtohumbleherselfbeforehim,tomakeherselftheshadowandechoofhismood.Shewantedtolingerwithhiminaworldoffancyandyettowalkathissideintheworldoffact

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