A look so
pleading--so patient--so weary of the struggle--so ready to
receive the blow--that the hot words recoiled in his throat. He
bent his head to search her eyes the better. Down in their depths,
as one sees the bottom of a clear pool he read the truth, and with
it came a reaction that sent the hot blood rushing through his
veins.
"Sorry for you, my darling!" he burst out joyously--"I who love
you like my own soul! Oh, Ruth!--Ruth!--my beloved!"
He had her in his arms now, her cheek to his, her yielding body
held close.
Then their lips met.
The Scribe lays down his pen. This be holy ground on which we
tread. All she has she has given him: all the fantasies of her
childhood, all the dreams of her girlhood, all her trust, her
loyalty--her reverence--all to the very last pulsation of her
being.
And this girl he holds in his arms! So pliant, so yielding, so
pure and undefiled! And the silken sheen and intoxicating perfume
of her hair, and the trembling lashes shading the eager, longing,
soul-hungry eyes; and the way the little pink ears nestle; and the
fair, white, dovelike throat, with its ripple of lace.
Pages:
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420