He had
touched her finger, and, before he was aware of it, he had dared to lean
over and kiss it. Not a word was said--there was no time for words. They
did not need speech to understand. It was the old, but ever new experience
of the ages: two who loved each other had found out in the twinkling of an
eye--and she belonged to another. There was a moment of terrible silence.
Then,
"I'm sorry," was all Gilbert could get out.
"But you touched my hand many a time, in the old days," Lucia said.
"That was different. You're married now. Oh, there is a vast change since
then. I could not--Forgive me, my dear." He turned away his face. He did
not want her to read what was in his eyes. "Shall I send them, or would you
rather take them with you?" he asked, hiding behind that commonplace
question the emotion he felt. His voice held a note of pain.
Lucia rose. "You mean you want to give these wonderful rugs and blankets to
me?--these priceless things."
"More than that. I want you to have them--to remind you--sometimes of--" He
broke off, like a frightened lad.
"As though I should ever need reminding! How dull you men can be! But I
don't want to take them from you, Gil.
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