A steep white cliff,
receding sullenly against the dim grey skyline; a farmhouse
grotesquely low for its size, crouching under big
shelving galleries heaped with snow; an opening in front,
to the right, where vaguely there seemed to be a valley
into which they would descend--he saw these things.
They remained in his mind afterward as a part of something
else that he saw, with his mental vision, at the same
moment--a strikingly real and vivid presentment of
Lady Cressage, attired as he had seen her in the saddle,
her light hair blown about a little under her hat,
a spot of colour in the exquisite cheek, the cold,
impersonal dignity of a queen in the beautiful profile.
The picture was so actual for the instant that he uttered
an involuntary exclamation--and then looked hastily round
to see whether his companions had heard it. Seemingly they
had not; he lolled again upon the comfortless cushion,
and strove to conjure up once more the apparition.
Nothing satisfactory came of the effort. Upon consideration,
he grew uncertain as to whether he had seen anything at all.
At the most it was a kind of half-dream which had visited him.
He yawned at the thought, and lighted a fresh cigar.
All at once, his mind had become too indolent to do any
more thinking. A shapeless impression that there would be
a good many things to think over later on flitted into his
brain and out again.
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