"I am--his wife."
VII
Afterward Carrigan wondered to what depths he had fallen in the
first moments of his disillusionment. Something like shock,
perhaps even more than that, must have betrayed itself in his
face. He did not speak. Slowly his outstretched arm dropped to the
white counterpane. Later he called himself a fool for allowing it
to happen, for it was as if he had measured his proffered
friendship by what its future might hold for him. In a low, quiet
voice Jeanne Marie-Anne Boulain was saying again that she was St.
Pierre's wife. She was not excited, yet he understood now why it
was he had thought her eyes were very dark. They had changed
swiftly. The violet freckles in them were like little flecks of
gold. They were almost liquid in their glow, neither brown nor
black now, and with that threat of gathering lightning in them.
For the first time he saw the slightest flush of color in her
cheeks. It deepened even as he held out his hand again. He knew
that it was not embarrassment. It was the heat of the fire back of
her eyes. "It's--funny," he said, making an effort to redeem
himself with a lie and smiling. "You rather amaze me.
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