The Italian bit his lip, and said something under his breath, but he
took the oars and pulled ashore. Mae turned her eyes downward and felt
the color creep up, up into her cheeks. It seemed eternity. The boat
was Charon's, and she was drifting to her fate. Norman Mann stood like a
statue. The wind moved his hair over his forehead, and once Mae saw him
toss the unruly locks back in a familiar way he had. She did not know
why, but the tears half came to her eyes as he did it. He stood as
firm and hard and still as a New England rock, while the Italian swayed
lithely as he pulled the oars, with the curve and motion of a sliding,
slippery stream.
The boat came safely ashore. The Piedmontese helped her to land, and the
three stood silent; but Mae under all her shame felt content to be near
Norman. His voice broke the quiet, quick and clear. "Are you married?"
he asked.
"I! married! What do you--what can he mean?"
"Why is this man here, then?"
Mae stood an instant so still that the heavy breaths of the two men were
distinctly audible, the passionate boundings of Bero's pulse, the long,
deep throbs of Norman's heart.
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