Риф, или Там, где разбивается счастье

X

           Sheonlyknewthatrunshemust,thatnoothermotion,shortofflight,wouldhavebeenbuoyantenoughforherhumour.Sheseemedtobekeepingpacewithsomeinwardrhythm,seekingtogivebodilyexpressiontothelyricrushofherthoughts.Theearthalwaysfeltelasticunderher,andshehadaconsciousjoyintreadingit;butneverhaditbeenassoftandspringyastoday.Itseemedactuallytoriseandmeetherasshewent,sothatshehadthefeeling,whichsometimescametoherindreams,ofskimmingmiraculouslyovershortbrightwaves.Theair,too,seemedtobreakinwavesagainsther,sweepingbyonitscurrentalltheslantedlightsandmoistsharpperfumesofthefailingday.Shepantedtoherself:“Thisisnonsense!”herbloodhummedback:“Butit’sglorious!”andshespedontillshesawthatOwenhadcaughtsightofherandwasstridingbackinherdirection.

           Thenshestoppedandwaited,flushedandlaughing,herhandsclaspedagainsttheletterinherbreast.

           “No,I’mnotmad,”shecalledout;“butthere’ssomethingintheairtoday—don’tyoufeelit?—AndIwantedtohavealittletalkwithyou,”sheaddedashecameuptoher,smilingathimandlinkingherarminhis.

           Hesmiledback,butabovethesmileshesawtheshadeofanxietywhich,forthelasttwomonths,hadkeptitsfixedlinebetweenhishandsomeeyes.

           “Owen,don’tlooklikethat!Idon’twantyouto!”shesaidimperiously.

           Helaughed.“YousaidthatexactlylikeEffie.

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