His mind was like a racecourse with many
races; and predominating in it was that swift, strange, stinging race of his
memory of Lucy Bostil's looks and actions.
What an utter fool he was to believe she had meant those tender words when,
out there under the looming monuments, she had accepted Wildfire! She had been
an impulsive child. Her scorn and fury that morning of the race had left
nothing for him except footless fancies. She had mistaken love of Wildfire for
love of him. No, his case was hopeless with Lucy, and if it had not been so
Bostil would have made it hopeless. Yet there were things Slone could not
fathom--the wilful, contradictory, proud and cold and unaccountably sweet
looks and actions of the girl. They haunted Slone. They made him conscious he
had a mind and tortured him with his development. But he had no experience
with girls to compare with what was happening now. It seemed that accepted
fact and remembered scorn and cold certainty were somehow at variance with
hitherto unknown intuitions and instincts.
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