.. no one could live under it.
Besides Mrs. Rossiter liked him ... he was amazing, you see ... people
said....
And the next stage arrived.
One May evening, at the Galleons' house, when some one was playing the
piano and all the world seemed to be sitting in corners Clare's hand lay
suddenly against his. The smooth outer curve of his hand lay against her
palm. Their little fingers touched. Sheets of fire rose, inflamed him and
fell ... rose again and fell. His hand began to shake, her hand began to
shake. He heard, a thousand miles away, some one singing about "the morn."
Their hands parted. She rose and slowly, her white dress and red-gold hair
flung against a background that seemed to him black and infinite, crossed
the room.
That trembling of her hand had maddened him. It suddenly showed him that
he--as well as another--might run the race for her. Everything that he had
ever done or been--his sentiments, his grossnesses, his restraints and his
rebellions--were now concerned in this pursuit. No other human
being--Stephen, Norah Monogue, Bobby, Alice--now had any interest for him.
His reviews were written he knew not how, the editions of "Reuben Hallard"
might run into the gross for all he cared, "The Stone House" lay neglected.
And he avoided seeing her. He was afraid to spoil that moment when her hand
had shaken at the touch of his, and yet he was tormented by the longing for
a new meeting that might provide some new amazement.
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