Риф, или Там, где разбивается счастье

V

           

           Darrow,witharenewedstartofcontrition,perceivedthathehadagainforgottenherletter;andastheirhandsmethevowedtohimselfthatthemomentshehadlefthimhewoulddashdownstairstopostit.

           “Oh,I’llseeyouinthemorning,ofcourse!”

           Atremorofpleasurecrossedherfaceashestoodbeforeher,smilingalittleuncertainly.

           “Atanyrate,”shesaid,“Iwanttothankyounowformygoodday.”

           Hefeltinherhandthesametremorhehadseeninherface.“Butit’syou,onthecontrary—”hebegan,liftingthehandtohislips.

           Ashedroppedit,andtheireyesmet,somethingpassedthroughhersthatwaslikealightcarriedrapidlybehindacurtainedwindow.

           “Goodnight;youmustbeawfullytired,”hesaidwithafriendlyabruptness,turningawaywithoutevenwaitingtoseeherpassintoherroom.Heunlockedhisdoor,andstumblingoverthethresholdgropedinthedarknessfortheelectricbutton.Thelightshowedhimatelegramonthetable,andheforgoteverythingelseashecaughtitup.

           “NoletterfromFrance,”themessageread.

           ItfellfromDarrow’shandtothefloor,andhedroppedintoachairbythetableandsatgazingatthedingydrabandolivepatternofthecarpet.Shehadnotwritten,then;shehadnotwritten,anditwasmanifestnowthatshedidnotmeantowrite.Ifshehadhadanyintentionofexplaininghertelegramshewouldcertainly,withintwenty-fourhours,havefolloweditupbyaletter.

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