Риф, или Там, где разбивается счастье

XXX

           AtGivreshehadfallenintoakindoftorpor,adeadnessofsoultraversedbywildflashesofpain;butwhethershesufferedorwhethershewasnumb,sheseemedequallyremotefromherreallivinganddoingself.

           Itwasonlythediscovery—thatverymorning—ofOwen’sunannounceddepartureforParisthathadcaughtheroutofherdreamandforcedherbacktoaction.Thedreadofwhatthisflightmightimply,andoftheconsequencesthatmightresultfromit,hadrousedhertothesenseofherresponsibility,andfromthemomentwhenshehadresolvedtofollowherstep-son,andhadmadeherrapidpreparationsforpursuit,hermindhadbeguntoworkagain,feverishly,fitfully,butstillwithsomethingofitsnormalorder.Inthetrainshehadbeentooagitated,toopreoccupiedwithwhatmightnextawaither,togiveherthoughtstoanythingbuttheturningoverofdreadalternatives;butMissPainter’simperviousnesshadsteadiedher,andwhileshewaitedforthesoundofthelatch-keysheresolutelyreturneduponherself.

           Withrespecttoheroutwardcourseshecouldatleasttellherselfthatshehadheldtoherpurpose.Shehad,aspeoplesaid,“keptup”duringthetwenty-fourhoursprecedingGeorgeDarrow’sdeparture;hadgonewithacalmfaceaboutherusualbusiness,andevencontrivednottooobviouslytoavoidhim.Then,thenextdaybeforedawn,frombehindtheclosedshutterswhereshehadkeptforhalfthenightherdry-eyedvigil,shehadheardhimdriveofftothetrainwhichbroughtitspassengerstoParisintimefortheCalaisexpress.

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