He wanted to shout back his
defiance as he ran with Jeanne along the path to the river. He
could feel her pulsing against him. His lips were in her hair. Her
heart was beating wildly against his own. One of her arms was
about his shoulder, her hand against his neck. Life, love, the joy
of possession swept through him in burning floods, and it seemed
in these first moments of his contact with Jeanne, in the first
sound of her voice speaking to him, that the passionate language
of his soul must escape through his lips. For this moment he had
risked his life, had taken a hundred chances; he had anticipated,
and yet he had not dreamed beyond a hundredth part of what it
would mean for him. He looked down into the white face of the girl
as he ran. Her beautiful eyes were open to him. Her lips were
parted; her cheek lay against his breast. He did not realize how
close he was holding her until, at last, he stopped where he had
hidden the canoe. Then he felt her beating and throbbing against
him, as he had felt the quivering life of a frightened bird
imprisoned in his hands. She drew a deep breath when he opened his
arms, and lifted her head. Her loose hair swept over his breast
and hands.
He spoke no word as he placed her in the canoe.
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