Maurice floated. As he leaned beside her a strand of perfumed
hair blew across his nostrils. . . . The princess was at best a
dream. It was not likely that he ever would speak to her again.
The princess was a poem, unlettered and unrhymed. But here,
close to him, was a bit of beautiful material prose. The hair
again blew out toward him and he moved his lips. She heard the
vague sound and lifted her head.
Far away came the call of the sentry; a horse whinneyed in the
stables. There was in the air the odor of an approaching storm.
CHAPTER XII
WHOM THE GODS DESTROY AND A FEW OTHERS
Some time passed before Fitzgerald became aware of Maurice's
departure. When he saw that he and Madame were alone, he said
nothing, but pulled all the quicker at his clay. He wondered at
the desire which suddenly manifested itself. Fly? Why should he
fly? The beat of his pulse answered him. . . . What a fine thing
it was to feel the presence of a woman--a woman like this! What
a fine thing always to experience the content derived from her
nearness!
He looked into his heart; there was no animosity; there was
nothing at all but a sense of gratefulness.
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