For a moment--so vivid was the blaze of memory--he seemed veritably to
be standing on another bridge (over the north branch of the Drainage
Canal, of all places) with the last, leonine blizzard of a March, which
had been treacherously lamblike before, swirling drunkenly about. He had
been tramping for hours over the clay-rutted roads with a girl he had
known a fortnight and had asked, the day before, to marry him. They had
been discussing this project very sensibly, they'd have said, in the
light of pure reason; and they were both unconscionably proud of the
fact that since the walk began there had been nothing a bystander could
have called a caress or an endearment between them. But there on the
bridge, a buffet of the gale had unbalanced her, and she--with just that
little gasping laugh--had clutched at his shoulder. He had flung one arm
around her and then the other. Without struggling at all she had held
herself away for a moment, taut as a strung bow, her hands clutching his
shoulders, her forearms braced against his chest; then, with the
rapturous relaxation of surrender, her body went soft in his embrace and
her arms slid round his neck; their faces, cool with the fine sleety
sting of the snow, came together.
Pages:
640
641
642
643
644
645
646
647
648
649
650
651
652
653
654
655
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664