酷兔英语

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"No! This isn't good enough for me," I said.

The last of the light gleamed in her long enigmatic eyes as if they



were precious enamel in that shadowy head which in its immobility

suggested a creation of a distant past: immortal art, not



transient life. Her voice had a profound quietness. She excused

herself.



"It's only habit - or instinct - or what you like. I have had to

practise that in self-defence lest I should be tempted sometimes to



cut the arm off."

I remembered the way she had abandoned this very arm and hand to



the white-haired ruffian. It rendered me gloomy and idiotically

obstinate.



"Very ingenious. But this sort of thing is of no use to me," I

declared.



"Make it up," suggested her mysterious voice, while her shadowy

figure remained unmoved, indifferentamongst the cushions.



I didn't stir either. I refused in the same low tone.

"No. Not before you give it to me yourself some day."



"Yes - some day," she repeated in a breath in which there was no

irony but rather hesitation, reluctance what did I know?



I walked away from the house in a curious state of gloomy

satisfaction with myself.



And this is the last extract. A month afterwards.

- This afternoon going up to the Villa I was for the first time



accompanied in my way by some misgivings. To-morrow I sail.

First trip and therefore in the nature of a trial trip; and I can't



overcome a certain gnawing emotion, for it is a trip that MUSTN'T

fail. In that sort of enterprise there is no room for mistakes.



Of all the individuals engaged in it will every one be intelligent

enough, faithful enough, bold enough? Looking upon them as a whole



it seems impossible; but as each has got only a limited part to

play they may be found sufficient each for his particular trust.



And will they be all punctual, I wonder? An enterprise that hangs

on the punctuality of many people, no matter how well disposed and



even heroic, hangs on a thread. This I have perceived to be also

the greatest of Dominic's concerns. He, too, wonders. And when he



breathes his doubts the smile lurking under the dark curl of his

moustaches is not reassuring.



But there is also something exciting in such speculations and the

road to the Villa seemed to me shorter than ever before.



Let in by the silent, ever-active, dark lady's maid, who is always

on the spot and always on the way somewhere else, opening the door



with one hand, while she passes on, turning on one for a moment her

quick, black eyes, which just miss being lustrous, as if some one



had breathed on them lightly.

On entering the long room I perceive Mills established in an



armchair which he had dragged in front of the divan. I do the same

to another and there we sit side by side facing R., tenderly



amiable yet somehow distant among her cushions, with an immemorial

seriousness in her long, shaded eyes and her fugitive smile



hovering about but never settling on her lips. Mills, who is just

back from over the frontier, must have been asking R. whether she



had been worried again by her devoted friend with the white hair.

At least I concluded so because I found them talking of the heart-



broken Azzolati. And after having answered their greetings I sit

and listen to Rita addressing Mills earnestly.



"No, I assure you Azzolati had done nothing to me. I knew him. He

was a frequentvisitor at the Pavilion, though I, personally, never



talked with him very much in Henry Allegre's lifetime. Other men

were more interesting, and he himself was rather reserved in his



manner to me. He was an internationalpolitician and financier - a

nobody. He, like many others, was admitted only to feed and amuse



Henry Allegre's scorn of the world, which was insatiable - I tell

you."






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