For, weak and injured as I was,
I still had strength in me; it was a listlessness of the brain
and hopelessness of the heart that made me content to lie and
wait for whatever might come.
The state of my feelings toward Desiree were even then elusive;
they are more so now. I had told her I loved her; well, I had
told many women that. But Desiree had moved me; with her it was
not the same--that I felt. I had never so admired a woman, and
the thrill of that kiss is in me yet; I can recall it and tremble
under its power by merely closing my eyes.
Her warm hand, pressed tightly in my own, seemed to send an
electric communication to every nerve in my body and eased my
suffering and stilled my pain. That, I know, is not love; and
perhaps I was mistaken when I imagined that it was there.
"Are you asleep?" she asked presently, after I had lain perfectly
quiet for many minutes. Her voice was so low that it entered my
ear as the faintest breath.
"Hardly," I answered. "To tell the truth, I expect never to
sleep again--I suppose you understand me. I can't say why--I feel
it."
Desiree nodded.
"Do you remember, Paul, what I said that evening on the
mountain?" Then--I suppose my face must have betrayed my
thought--she added quickly: "Oh, I didn't mean that--other thing.
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