And Thompson sat covertly looking at her profile, the dull gold of her
coiled hair, the red-lipped mouth that was made for kisses and
laughter--and he was glad just to look at her, to be near. For he was
beginning to say to himself that it was no good fighting against fate,
that this girl had put some spell on him from which he would never be
wholly free. Nor did he, in that mood, desire to be free. He wanted that
spell to grow so strong that in the end it would weave itself about her
too, make love beget love. There was quickening in him again that desire
to pursue, to conquer, to possess. The ego in him whispered that once
for a moment Sophie had rested like a homing bird in his arms, and
would, again. But he was not to be betrayed by headlong impulse. The
time was not yet. Instinct warned him that in some fashion, vague,
unrevealed, he had still to prove himself to Sophie Carr. He was aware
intuitively that she weighed him in the balance of cold, critical
reason, against any emotional appeal--just as he, himself, was learning
to weigh things and men. He did not know this. He only felt it. But he
felt sure of his instinct where she was concerned.
And so he was content, for the time, with the privilege of being near
her.
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