He leaned a little towards her, resting against
the marble sill of the window.
"And you meant something more--" he began to say. Then he stopped short.
His heart was beating hard and the hot blood throbbed in his temples,
his lips closed tightly and his breathing was audible.
Maria Consuelo turned her head, glanced at him quickly and instantly
looked back at the smooth glass before her and at the green light on the
shutters without. He was scarcely conscious that she had moved. In love,
as in a storm at sea, matters grow very grave in a few moments.
"You meant that you might still--" Again he stopped. The words would not
come.
He fancied that she would not speak. She could not, any more than she
could have left his side at that moment. The air was very sultry even in
the cool, closed room. The green light on the shutters darkened
suddenly. Then a far distant peal of thunder rolled its echoes slowly
over the city. Still neither moved from the window.
"If you could--" Orsino's voice was low and soft, but there was
something strangely overwrought in the nervous quality of it.
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