"
She stretched out her arms to him and smiled, her compelling
heart-shattering smile. Ardor enveloped her like an aura; the beauty and
color of her were like fragrance on the air. "That's the kind of man I
want to marry, Harry, not a man that's willing to live outside of life
and work, and stay dead and buried here in these mountains."
He did not bend to her by an inch. Her smiles and her ardor splintered
against chilled steel and fell unheeded. "Is there anything else?" he
asked, after a slight interval of silence, during which he had the
appearance of waiting with a pronounced and punctilious courtesy for
further words from her.
She made no answer, merely continued to look at him, but he, apparently
unmindful and indifferent to that gaze, lifted his book from the table
beside him and, still standing, because she did so, began to read.
For a moment or two she seemed dazed and then, with trembling fingers,
she gathered up her jewels and placed them in the little black bag.
This task accomplished, she started with all the scornful grace, the
indifferent languor of a Spanish duchess to sweep from the room, but in
passing him and noting him still absorbed in his book, her hot blood
flushed her cheek, her eyes glittered with angry fire. Her slight pause
caused him to look up and, seeing the anger on her face, he smiled
amusedly, insufferably. The next second she sprang at him like a cat and
slapped him across his insolently smiling face, and then flung Spanish
oaths at him with such force and heat that they seemed to splutter in
falling upon the chill of the air.
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