She had on her best dress
of black voile, and her hair was tidy, but still damp. She looked at
him--and in spite of herself, smiled.
'I don't like you in those clothes,' she said.
'Do I look a sight?' he answered.
They were shy of one another.
'I'll make you some tea,' she said.
'No, I must go.'
'Must you?' And she looked at him again with the wide, strained, doubtful
eyes. And again, from the pain of his breast, he knew how he loved her.
He went and bent to kiss her, gently, passionately, with his heart's
painful kiss.
'And my hair smells so horrible,' she murmured in distraction. 'And I'm
so awful, I'm so awful! Oh, no, I'm too awful.' And she broke into
bitter, heart-broken sobbing. 'You can't want to love me, I'm horrible.'
'Don't be silly, don't be silly,' he said, trying to comfort her, kissing
her, holding her in his arms. 'I want you, I want to marry you, we're
going to be married, quickly, quickly--to-morrow if I can.'
But she only sobbed terribly, and cried:
'I feel awful. I feel awful. I feel I'm horrible to you.'
'No, I want you, I want you,' was all he answered, blindly, with that
terrible intonation which frightened her almost more than her horror lest
he should _not_ want her.
_Fanny And Annie_
Flame-lurid his face as he turned among the throng of flame-lit and dark
faces upon the platform. In the light of the furnace she caught sight of
his drifting countenance, like a piece of floating fire.
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