The Mettle of the Pasture by James Lane Allen
page 14 of 303 (04%)
page 14 of 303 (04%)
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She walked on and reached the steps of the veranda. Crying out in
his longing he threw his arms around her and held her close. "You must not! You shall not! Do you know what you are doing, Isabel?" She made not the least reply, not the least effort to extricate herself. But she closed her eyes and shuddered and twisted her body away from him as a bird of the air bends its neck and head as far as possible from a repulsive captor; and like the heart of such a bird, he could feel the throbbing of her heart. Her mute submission to his violence stung him: he let her go. She spread out her arms as though in a rising flight of her nature and the shawl, tossed backward from her shoulders, fell to the ground: it was as if she cast off the garment he had touched. Then she went quickly up the steps. Before she could reach the door he confronted her again; he pressed his back against it. She stretched out her hand and rang the bell. He stepped aside very quickly--proudly. She entered, closing and locking noiselessly the door that no sound might reach the servant she had summoned. As she did so she heard him try the knob and call to her in an undertone of last reproach and last entreaty: "_Isabel!--Isabel!--Isabel_!" Hurrying through the hall, she ran silently up the stairs to her room and shut herself in. Her first feeling was joy that she was there safe from him and from |
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