Flower of the North by James Oliver Curwood
page 58 of 271 (21%)
page 58 of 271 (21%)
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"I mean--the color," said Philip, engaging himself with the food.
"They were blue or gray. It is the first time I ever looked into a woman's eyes without being sure of the color of them. It was her hair, Phil--not this tinsel sort of gold that makes you wonder if it's real, but the kind you dream about. You may think me a loon, but I'm going to find out who she is and where she is as soon as I have done with this breakfast." "And Lord Fitzhugh?" A shadow passed over Gregson's face. For a few moments he ate in silence. Then he said: "That's what kept me awake after you had gone--thinking of Lord Fitzhugh and this girl. See here, Phil. She isn't one of the kind up here. There was breeding and blood in every inch of her, and what I am wondering is if these two could be associated in any way. I don't want it to be so. But--it's possible. Beautiful young women like her don't come, traveling up to this knob-end of the earth alone, do they?" Philip did not pursue the subject. A quarter of an hour later the two young men left the cabin, crossed the ridge, and walked together down into Churchill. Gregson went to the Company's store, while Philip entered the building occupied by Pearce. Pearce was at his desk. He looked up with tired, puffy eyes, and his fat hands lay limply before him. Philip knew that he had not been to bed. His oily face strove to put on an appearance of animation and business as Philip entered. |
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