There she was on my side of the chasm that had
separated us--alone with me--mine--mine! And my heart dilated with pride.
But a moment later came a sense of humility. Her beauty intoxicated me, but
her youth, her fineness, so fragile for such rough hands as mine, awed and
humbled me.
"I must be very gentle," said I to myself. "I have promised that she shall
never regret. God help me to keep my promise! She is mine, but only to
preserve and protect."
And that idea of _responsibility in possession_ was new to me--was
to have far-reaching consequences. Now that I think of it, I believe it
changed the whole course of my life.
She was leaning forward, her elbow on the casement of the open window of
the brougham, her cheek against her hand; the moonlight was glistening
on her round, firm forearm and on her serious face. "How far, far away
from--everything it seems here!" she said, her voice tuned to that soft,
clear light, "and how beautiful it is!" Then, addressing the moon and the
shadows of the trees rather than me: "I wish I could go on and on--and
never return to--to the world."
"I wish we could," said I.
My tone was low, but she started, drew back into the brougham, became an
outline in the deep shadow.
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