Not a word. Yet it was not the shrinking
anguish of her other experiences of angry scenes. She made a mighty
effort, though her knees were knocking together, and in an expiring voice
demanded that he should let her go indoors. "Don't stop me. It's no
use. It's no use," she repeated faintly, feeling an invincible obstinacy
rising within her, yet without anger against that raging man.
He became articulate suddenly, and, without raising his voice, perfectly
audible.
"No use! No use! You dare stand here and tell me that--you white-faced
wisp, you wreath of mist, you little ghost of all the sorrow in the
world. You dare! Haven't I been looking at you? You are all eyes. What
makes your cheeks always so white as if you had seen something . . .
Don't speak. I love it . . . No use! And you really think that I can
now go to sea for a year or more, to the other side of the world
somewhere, leaving you behind. Why! You would vanish . . . what little
there is of you. Some rough wind will blow you away altogether. You
have no holding ground on earth. Well, then trust yourself to me--to the
sea--which is deep like your eyes.
Pages:
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357