Then there came a pressure against his breast, a
gentle resistance of Marion's half conscious form, and when she had
awakened from her partial swoon he was holding her in the crook of his
arm. It had all passed quickly, the girl had rested against him only so
long as he might have held half a dozen breaths and yet there had been
all of a lifetime in it for Nathaniel Plum, a cycle of joy that he knew
would remain with him for ever. But there was something bitter-sweet in
the thought that she was conscious of what he had done, something of
humiliation as well as gladness, and still not enough of the first to
make him regret that he had kissed her, that he had kissed her mouth and
her eyes. He loved her, and he was glad that in those passing moments he
had betrayed himself. For the first time he noticed that her face was
scratched and that the sleeves of her thin waist were torn to shreds;
and as she drew away from him, steadying herself with a hand on his arm,
his lips were parched of words, and yet he leaned to her eagerly,
everything that he would have said burning in the love of his eyes.
Still irresolute in her faintness the girl smiled at him, and in that
smile there was gentle accusation, the sweetness of forgiveness, and
measureless gratitude, and it was yet light enough for him to see that
with these there had come also a flush into her cheeks and a dazzling
glow into her eyes.
"Neil has escaped!" she breathed. "And you--"
"I was going back to you, Marion!" He spoke the words hardly above a
whisper.
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