A curious thrill shot through Philip as he heard her footsteps and the
soft swish of her skirt. Involuntarily he rose to his feet as she entered
the room. For fully ten seconds they stood facing each other without
speaking. She was dressed in filmy gray stuff. There was lace at her
throat. She had shifted the thick bright coils of her hair to the crown
of her head; a splendid glory of hair, he thought. Her cheeks were
flushed, and with her hands against her breast, she seemed crushing back
the strange excitement that glowed in her eyes. Once he had seen a fawn's
eyes that looked like hers. In them were suspense, fear--a yearning that
was almost pain. Suddenly she came to him, her hands outstretched.
Involuntarily, too, he took them. They were warm and soft. They thrilled
him--and they clung to him.
"I am Josephine McCloud," she said. "My father has explained to you? You
know--a man--who calls himself--God?"
Her fingers clung more tightly to his, and the sweetness of her hair, her
breath, her eyes were very close as she waited.
"Yes, I know a man who calls himself Peter God."
"Tell me--what he is like?" she whispered. "He is tall--like you?"
"No. He is of medium height."
"And his hair? It is dark--dark like yours?"
"No. It is blond, and a little gray."
"And he is young--younger than you?"
"He is older."
"And his eyes--are dark?"
He felt rather than heard the throbbing of her heart as she waited for
him to reply.
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