And Marguerite could
not speak to her brother about the secrets of her heart; she hardly
understood them herself, she only knew that, in the midst of luxury,
she felt lonely and unhappy.
And now Armand was going away; she feared for his safety, she
longed for his presence. She would not spoil these last few
sadly-sweet moments by speaking about herself. She led him gently
along the cliffs, then down to the beach; their arms linked in one
another's, they had still so much to say that lay just outside that
secret orchard of theirs.
CHAPTER VIII THE ACCREDITED AGENT
The afternoon was rapidly drawing to a close; and a long,
chilly English summer's evening was throwing a misty pall over the
green Kentish landscape.
The DAY DREAM had set sail, and Marguerite Blakeney stood
alone on the edge of the cliff over an hour, watching those white
sails, which bore so swiftly away from her the only being who really
cared for her, whom she dared to love, whom she knew she could trust.
Some little distance away to her left the lights from the
coffee-room of "The Fisherman's Rest" glittered yellow in the
gathering mist; from time to time it seemed to her aching nerves as if
she could catch from thence the sound of merry-making and of jovial
talk, or even that perpetual, senseless laugh of her husband's, which
grated continually upon her sensitive ears.
Pages:
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100