Marietta - A Maid of Venice by F. Marion (Francis Marion) Crawford
page 40 of 430 (09%)
page 40 of 430 (09%)
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last time, shading the candle with his hand, so as to throw the light
down the staircase. Then he entered the apartment and locked himself in. Having passed through the large square vestibule and through a small room that led from it, he raised the latch of the next door very cautiously, shaded the candle again and looked in. A cool breeze almost put out the light. "I am not asleep," said a sweet young voice. "I am here by the window." He smiled happily at the words. The candle-light fell upon a woman's face, as he went forward--such a face as men may see in dreams, but rarely in waking life. Half sitting, half lying, she rested in Eastern fashion among the silken cushions of a low divan. The open windows of the balcony overlooked the low houses opposite, and the night breeze played with the little ringlets of her glorious hair. Her soft eyes looked up to her lover's face with infinite trustfulness, and their violet depths were like clear crystal and as tender as the twilight of a perfect day. She looked at him, her head thrown back, one ivory arm between it and the cushion, the other hand stretched out to welcome his. Her mouth was like a southern rose when there is dew on the smooth red leaves. In a maze of creamy shadows, the fine web of her garment followed the lines of her resting limbs in delicate folds, and one small white foot was quite uncovered. Her fan of ostrich feathers lay idle on the Persian carpet. "Come, my beloved," she said. "I have waited long." Contarini knelt down, and first he kissed the arching instep, and then her hand, that felt like a young dove just stirring under his touch, and |
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