Pierre's arms in their meeting. It was
this night, with its gloom and its storm, that had made the
shadowings of her unrest a torturing reality. For St. Pierre had
brought her back to the bateau and had played a pitiably weak part
in concealing his desire to return to the raft.
So he told himself Marie-Anne did not know the truth, not as he
had seen it through the window of St. Pierre's cabin. She had been
hurt, for he had seen the sting of it, and in that same instant he
had seen her soul rise up and triumph. He saw again the sudden
fire that came into her eyes when St. Pierre urged the necessity
of his haste, he saw her slim body grow tense, her red lips curve
in a flash of pride and disdain. And as Carrigan thought of her in
that way his muscles grew tighter, and he cursed St. Pierre.
Marie-Anne might be hurt, she might guess that her husband's eyes
and thoughts were too frequently upon another's face--but in the
glory of her womanhood it was impossible for her to conceive of a
crime such as he had witnessed through the cabin window. Of that
he was sure.
And then, suddenly, like a blinding sheet of lightning out of a
dark sky, came back to him all that St.
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