For there was Carmin
Fanchet, a fitting companion for a man like Black Roger, and there
was Marie-Anne, who, if it had been a joke, would not have played
her part so well.
Suddenly his mind was filled only with her. Had she been his
friend, using all her influence to protect him, because her heart
was sick of the environment of which she was a part? His own heart
jumped at the thought. It was easy to believe. In Marie-Anne he
had faith, and that faith refused to be destroyed, but persisted--
even clearer and stronger as he thought again of Carmin Fanchet
and Black Roger. In his heart grew the conviction it was sacrilege
to believe the kiss she had given him that morning was a lie. It
was something else--a spontaneous gladness, a joyous exultation
that he had returned unharmed, a thing unplanned in the soul of
the woman, leaping from her before she could stop it. Then had
come shame, and she had run away from him so swiftly he had not
seen her face again after the touch of her lips. If it had been a
subterfuge, a lie, she would not have done that.
He rose to his feet and paced restlessly back and forth as he
tried to bring together a few tangled bits of the puzzle.
Pages:
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292