Condy even forgot, or rather disdained on such a morning as that,
to piece together and rearrange Captain Jack's yarns into story
form. To look at the sea and the green hills, to watch the pink
on Blix's cheek and her yellow hair blowing across her eyes and
lips, was better than thinking. Life was better than literature.
To live was better than to read; one live human being was better
than ten thousand Shakespeares; an act was better than a thought.
Why, just to love Blix, to be with her, to see the sweet, clean
flush of her cheek, to know that she was there at his side, and to
have the touch of her elbow as they walked, was better than the
best story, the greatest novel he could ever hope to write. Life
was better than literature, and love was the best thing in life.
To love Blix and to be near her--what else was worth while? Could
he ever think of finding anything in life sweeter and finer than
this dear young girl of nineteen?
Suddenly Condy came to himself with an abrupt start. What was
this he was thinking--what was this he was telling himself? Love
Blix! He loved Blix! Why, of COURSE he loved her--loved her so,
that with the thought of it there came a great, sudden clutch at
the heart and a strange sense of tenderness, so vague and yet so
great that it eluded speech and all expression. Love her! Of
course he loved her! He had, all unknowing, loved her even before
this wonderful morning: had loved her that day at the lake, and
that never-to-be-forgotten, delicious afternoon in the Chinese
restaurant; all those long, quiet evenings spent in the window of
the little dining-room, looking down upon the darkening city, he
had loved her.
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