And in the very middle
of his sensational report of Ragtime's empty stall she swung to the
saddle and turned toward the north.
She rode hard at first. She put the small roan mare between her knees
to a pounding gallop, pulling to a walk only after the rushing air had
whipped back into her cheeks a part at least of the glow which the
sleepless night had robbed from them. And if the tang of the trees and
the solitude and the warmth of the sun did their work slowly, they
nevertheless did it well. Little by little her tense body relaxed; the
line of her lips softened. Almost before she realized it that morning,
she had relegated her anxiety over Garry Devereau and her astonishment
at the confession which she had beheld in Miriam's eyes to a rather
hazy background, and turned to those very thoughts against which she
had fought so fiercely throughout the night. She drifted into a
surprisingly unanalytical and most femininely inquisitive wonder
concerning a tall figure in blue flannel and corduroy. She suddenly
found herself pondering the very incidents which, a few hours before,
had set her small fists to clenching in a tide of incomprehensible
resentment--against herself or him she could not for the life of her
tell.
Mile after mile, the roan mare placidly choosing the pace, she rode
with one leg dangling over the pummel of the saddle, everything else
forgotten in that preoccupied endeavor to review each moment she had
shared with him.
Pages:
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175