She looked
appealingly at him, almost as if he were her judge. He had allowed
her to speak on in her own vehement, impassioned way, offering no
comment, no word of sympathy: and now, while she paused, trying to
swallow down the hot tears that gushed to her eyes, he waited,
impassive and still. The dim, grey light of early dawn seemed to make
his tall form look taller and more rigid. The lazy, good-natured face
looked strangely altered. Marguerite, excited, as she was, could see
that the eyes were no longer languid, the mouth no longer
good-humoured and inane. A curious look of intense passion seemed to
glow from beneath his drooping lids, the mouth was tightly closed, the
lips compressed, as if the will alone held that surging passion in
check.
Marguerite Blakeney was, above all, a woman, with all a
woman's fascinating foibles, all a woman's most lovable sins. She
knew in a moment that for the past few months she had been mistaken:
that this man who stood here before her, cold as a statue, when her
musical voice struck upon his ear, loved her, as he had loved her a
year ago: that his passion might have been dormant, but that it was
there, as strong, as intense, as overwhelming, as when first her lips
met his in one long, maddening kiss.
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