"I know it now. But give me a kind word to take
with me. I shall be so lonely, now that you are my enemy. Will you not
say you wish me well? Ah! Guy, remember all the hours that I have tried
to make pleasant for you. Say 'Good-by, Flora,' only those two little
words, gently." Her voice was broken and uncertain, but full of music
still, like the wind wandering through an organ.
Just at that moment I opened the door. (I had not an idea Livingstone
was not alone.) I closed it before either had remarked my entrance, but
not before I had caught sight of a very striking picture.
Guy was leaning one arm against the mantel-piece; the other was crossed
over his chest: on that arm Flora was clinging, with both her hands
clenched in the passion of her appeal. Her slight bonnet had fallen
rather back, showing the masses of her glorious hair, and all her
flushed cheeks, and her eyes that shone with a strange lustre, though
there were tears still on their long, trailing lashes. I saw the
impersonation of material life, exuberant and vigorous, yet delicately
lovely--the Lust of the Eye incarnate.
He stood perfectly still, making no effort to cast her off. Had he done
so with violence, it would scarcely have evinced more repulsion than did
the expression of his face.
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