Риф, или Там, где разбивается счастье

XXXVII

           Finallyhelookedup,hissmileenvelopedher,andshefeltherselfhisineveryfibre,hissocompletelyandinseparablythatshesawthevanityofimagininganyotherfateforherself.

           TogiveherselfacountenancesheheldoutOwen’sletter.Hetookitandglanceddownthepage,hisfacegrowngrave.Shewaitednervouslytillhelookedup.

           “That’sagoodplan;thebestthingthatcouldhappen,”hesaid,ajustperceptibleshadeofconstraintinhistone.

           “Oh,yes,”shehastilyassented.Shewasawareofafaintcurrentofreliefsilentlycirculatingbetweenthem.TheywerebothgladthatOwenwasgoing,thatforawhilehewouldbeoutoftheirway;anditseemedtoherhorriblethatsomuchofthestuffoftheirhappinessshouldbemadeofsuchunavowedfeelings...

           “Ishallseehimthisevening,”shesaid,wishingDarrowtofeelthatshewasnotafraidofmeetingherstep-son.

           “Yes,ofcourse;perhapshemightdinewithyou.”

           Thewordsstruckherasstrangelyobtuse.DarrowwastomeethisAmbassadoratthestationonthelatter’sarrival,andwouldinallprobabilityhavetospendtheeveningwithhim,andAnnaknewhehadbeenconcernedatthethoughtofhavingtoleaveheralone.ButhowcouldhespeakinthatcarelesstoneofherdiningwithOwen?Sheloweredhervoicetosay:“I’mafraidhe’sdesperatelyunhappy.”

           Heanswered,withatingeofimpatience:“It’smuchthebestthingthatheshouldtravel.”

           “Yes—butdon’tyoufeel...”Shebrokeoff.

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