"Out of prison," she said disconnectedly. "Out of prison--into this!"
Suddenly she turned upon Androvsky and caught his arm, and twined both
of her arms round it with a strong confidence that was careless of
everything in the intensity of its happiness.
"All my life I've been in prison," she said. "You've unlocked the
door!" And then, as suddenly as she had caught his arm, she let it go.
Something surged up in her, making her almost afraid; or, if not that,
confused. It was as if her nature were a horse taking the bit between
its teeth preparatory to a tremendous gallop. Whither? She did not know.
She was intoxicated by the growing light, the sharp, delicious air, the
huge spaces around her, the solitude with this man who held her soul
surely in his hands. She had always connected him with the desert. Now
he was hers into the desert, and the desert was hers with him. But was
it possible? Could such a fate have been held in reserve for her? She
scarcely dared even to try to realise the meaning of her situation,
lest at a breath it should be changed. Just then she felt that if she
ventured to weigh and measure her wonderful gift Androvsky would fall
dead at her feet and the desert be folded together like a scroll.
Pages:
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570