Unlucky Jack!
Many were the evenings he tramped the dunes, rehearsing in the darkness
the momentous declaration that was to work a miracle in his solitary
life. Like an actor committing his lines, he would repeat the words,
hurling them upon the blackness of the night where, to the
accompaniment of the booming surf, they echoed with a majesty and
dignity astonishingly impressive. But in the light of day and Sarah
Libbie's presence, his sonorous philippic would dwindle away into a
jargon of garbled phrases too disjointed and meaningless to carry
weight with any woman, let alone the peerless Sarah Libbie Lewis.
Thus for more than a quarter of a century Jack Nickerson had silently
worshiped at the shrine of his divinity, and in the meantime the roses
in Sarah Libbie's cheeks had grown fainter, and tendrils of silver had
found their way into the soft curls that shadowed her brow. Still Jack
could not speak the words that were on his lips. Of course the little
woman could not do it for him, although she did venture by many a
subtle device to aid him in his dilemma.
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