She knew no sea that had
its special gift of magical gayety and stirring hopefulness, its
laughing Pagan appeal to all the light things of the soul. It woke
even the weary heart to holiday when, in the summer, it glittered and
danced in the sun, whispering or calling with a tender or bold
vivacity along its lovely coast.
Out of this morning beauty, refined and exquisitely gentle, would rise
presently that livelier Pagan spirit. It was not hers. She was no
Pagan. But she had loved it, and she had, or thought she had, been
able to understand it.
All that was long ago.
Now, as she leaned out, her soul felt old and haggard, and the contact
with the youth and freshness of the morning emphasized its inability
to be influenced any more by youthful wonders, by the graciousness and
inspiration that are the gifts of dawn.
Was that Ruffo's boat?
Her mind was dwelling on Ruffo, but mechanically, heavily, like a
thing with feet of lead, unable to lift itself once it had dropped
down upon a surface.
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