THE LOVE OF MONSIEUR
over her with all his old grace—“now, if madame will permit me, I will conduct her to the cabin.”
The speech, the very words, the very gesture, the very modulations of the voice—where had she heard them before? A hurried winging of thought brought the swaying of colored lanterns—a garden—a graveled walk—a perfumed night; and while she still looked in wonder, a boisterous puff of wind flared up the torch on the mast and tossed his wide-brimmed hat back upon his head so that she saw a scar upon his temple.
She peered straight forward and he turned his head in vain.
“Good God!” she cried. “This! Is it this?”
It was too late to continue the concealment, had he wished to do so. Then, while he in turn was peering at her, startled at the lively expression of horror in her eyes—a horror at his condition and plainly not at himself—she covered her face with her fingers and bowed her head into them, not shrinkingly in loathing as he might have expected from the woman he had
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