Poor Thomas; he was addled with moonlight; moonlight over Anna,
over him, moonlight over the hills, over the road, and voices unseen in
the shadows, and shadows unheard all around him.
"I could go on like this till the end of time."
"Could you?"
"I could ride like this forever and ever."
Anna lay quiet, lulled by the cold and the gentle movement of the
wagon, now fast, now slow. "Together?" she asked. "Like this?"
"That's what I mean."
His hand touched hers; their fingers twined about each other. "I
know," said Anna. She, too, could have gone on forever, dreaming in
the moonlight. Noel . . . Thomas . . . what was the difference?
"Don't talk. Look at the trees, up against the moon. Look at my
breath; there's a regular fog of it."
"Are you cold?" He bent to wrap the heavy blanket more snugly about
her. He wanted to say: "You belong to me, and I belong to you." And
at that moment, with all her heart, Anna wanted to belong to some one,
wanted some one to belong to her . . .
"Thanks, Tom--dear.
Pages:
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90