Her figure, though slight, had all the fulness of health; and her complexion—still pale, but without its former sickly cast,—contrasted agreeably, by its extreme fairness, with the dark brows and darker lashes that shaded eyes which, if they had lost some of their original brilliancy, had gained infinitely more in the soft and chastened lustre that replaced it. “And yet,” he said, “you bid me talk cheerfully, or not at all. You have betrayed me. ” “It is over for now,” he answered, “but I cannot bear to think that you are subject to this sort of thing. I saw him ride away with that other fellow. Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. With what airs we human atoms invest ourselves! What ridiculous fancies of our importance! We believe we have destinies, when we have only destinations: that we are something immortal, when each of us is in truth only the repository of a dream. I'll put you aboard The Tigress to-morrow after sundown.
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