She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. "No, I won't leave go!" screamed Mrs. At last his voice came to release her tension. But she did not talk readily, and in order to say something she plunged a little, and felt she plunged. His complexion was pale; and there was something sinister in the expression of his large black eyes. The little streaks upon the germinating area of an egg, the nervous movements of an impatient horse, the trick of a calculating boy, the senses of a fish, the fungus at the root of a garden flower, and the slime upon a sea-wet rock—ten thousand such things bear their witness and are illuminated. The call of youth to youth, and we name it love for want of something better: a glamorous, evanescent thing "like snow upon the desert's dusty face, lighting a little hour or two, was gone. She read on and on, now thrilled by the swiftly moving drama, now enraptured by the tender passages of love. She no longer felt sick or dizzy, her muscles returned to a relaxed, supple state. Wood will be here presently.
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