The Nest Builder by Beatrice Forbes-Robertson Hale
page 26 of 379 (06%)
page 26 of 379 (06%)
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"What fun!" cried Stefan, with a faunlike skip of pleasure, as they turned onto the emptier windward deck. "Then we're both seeking our fortunes." "Living, rather than fortune, in my case, I'm afraid." "Well, of course you don't need a fortune, you carry so much gold with you," and he glanced at her shining hair. "Not negotiable, unluckily," she replied, taking his compliment as he had paid it, without a trace of self-consciousness. "Like the sunlight," he answered. "In fact,"--confidentially--"I'm afraid you're a thief; you've imprisoned a piece of the sun, which should belong to us all. However, I'm not going to complain to the authorities, I like the result too much. You don't mind my saying that, do you?" he continued, sure that she did not. "You see, I'm a painter. Color means everything to me--that and form." "One never minds hearing nice things, I think," she replied, with a frank smile. They were swinging up and down the windward deck, and as he talked he was acutely aware of her free movements beside him, and of the blow of her skirts to leeward. Her hair, too closely pinned to fly loose, yet seemed to spring from her forehead with the urge of pinioned wings. Life radiated from her, he thought, with a steady, upward flame--not fitfully, as with most people. "And one doesn't mind questions, does one--from real people?" he continued. "I'm going to ask you lots more, and you may ask me as many as |
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