"The slough of despond?" he added.
"What silly stuff!" Rosemary pronounced.
"It was," he agreed, "mostly. But the paper about Indy was a superior
production. B plus, I think."
A slow comprehension dawned on her face, blurred by the night.
"So that's where they went," she observed; "you marked them." He would
have sworn that a smile hovered for the fraction of a moment on her
pale lips. She drew up her shoulders slightly and turned away.
His best, his only hope had flickered for a minute and died away. Her
silence was like impregnable armor. A puff of wind filled the sails,
there was a straining of cordage, an augmented bubbling at the sloop's
bow, and then the stir subsided. He passed into a darkness of old
distresses, forebodings, grim recollections from his boyhood, inherited
bleak memories. Rosemary Roselle's upright figure gradually sank. He
realized that she was asleep on her arm. Elim bent forward shamelessly
and studied her worn countenance. There was a trace of tears on her
cheek. She was as delicate, as helpless as a flower sleeping on its
stalk.
An impulse to touch her hair was so compelling that he started back,
shaken; a new discordant tumult rose within him, out of which emerged
an aching hunger for Rosemary Roselle; he wanted her with a passion
cold and numbing like ether. He wanted her without reason, and in the
desire lost his deep caution, his rectitude of conscience. He was torn
far beyond the emotional possibilities of weak men.
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