Lucy avoided him, if by chance she
encountered him alone. When Bostil or Aunt Jane or any one else was present
Lucy was kind, pleasant, agreeable. What made her flush red at sight of him
and then, pale? Why did she often at table or in the big living-room softly
brush against him when it seemed she could have avoided that? Many times he
had felt some inconceivable drawing power, and looked up to find her eyes upon
him, strange eyes full of mystery, that were suddenly averted. Was there any
meaning attachable to the fact that his room was kept so tidy and neat, that
every day something was added to its comfort or color, that he found fresh
flowers whenever he returned, or a book, or fruit, or a dainty morsel to eat,
and once a bunch of Indian paint-brush, wild flowers of the desert that Lucy
knew he loved? Most of all, it was Lucy's eyes which haunted Slone--eyes that
had changed, darkened, lost their audacious flash, and yet seemed all the
sweeter. The glances he caught, which he fancied were stolen--and then
derided his fancy--thrilled him to his heart.
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