To the one post each day she looked forward terribly. And yet his
letters, which began like hers: "My dear friend," might have been read
by anyone--almost. She spent a long time over her answers. She was not
sleeping well; and, lying awake, she could see his face very distinct
before her closed eyes--its teasing, lazy smile, its sudden intent
gravity. Once she had a dream of him, rushing past her down into the
sea. She called, but, without turning his head, he swam out further,
further, till she lost sight of him, and woke up suddenly with a pain in
her heart. "If you can't love me, I've got to break away!" His face, his
flung-back head reminded her too sharply of those words. Now that he was
away from her, would he not feel that it was best to break, and forget
her? Up there, he would meet girls untouched by life--not like herself.
He had everything before him; could he possibly go on wanting one who
had nothing before her? Some blue-eyed girl with auburn hair--that type
so superior to her own--would sweep, perhaps had already swept him, away
from her! What then? No worse than it used to be? Ah, so much worse that
she dared not think of it!
Then, for five days, no letter came. And, with each blank morning,
the ache in her grew--a sharp, definite ache of longing and jealousy,
utterly unlike the mere feeling of outraged pride when she had surprised
Fiorsen and Daphne Wing in the music-room--a hundred years ago, it
seemed.
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