And, suddenly turning round to the gate,
she laid her arms on the top bar and buried her face on them. A sob came
up in her throat that seemed to tear her to bits, and she cried as if
her heart would break. His timid despairing touches, his voice close to
her ear:
"Gyp, Gyp! My darling! My love! Oh, don't, Gyp!" were not of the least
avail; she could not stop. That kiss had broken down something in her
soul, swept away her life up to that moment, done something terrible and
wonderful. At last, she struggled out:
"I'm sorry--so sorry! Don't--don't look at me! Go away a little, and
I'll--I'll be all right."
He obeyed without a word, and, passing through the gate, sat down on the
edge of the cliff with his back to her, looking out over the sea.
Gripping the wood of the old grey gate till it hurt her hands, Gyp
gazed at the chicory flowers and poppies that had grown up again in the
stubble field, at the butterflies chasing in the sunlight over the
hedge toward the crinkly foam edging the quiet sea till they were but
fluttering white specks in the blue.
But when she had rubbed her cheeks and smoothed her face, she was no
nearer to feeling that she could trust herself. What had happened in
her was too violent, too sweet, too terrifying. And going up to him she
said:
"Let me go home now by myself. Please, let me go, dear. To-morrow!"
Summerhay looked up.
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