John
wondered at her as he watched her: she seemed to be possessed with an
unnatural life; a flickering, dancing sort of fire burned in her eye,
on her cheek and lip, in her restless manner: she was like one who
after long slumber felt herself alive and receiving happiness at every
pore, but a strange, treacherous sort of happiness that might slip
away and leave her at any moment, and which she was ever on the alert
to keep.
One night Lilian's mother had gone below, John had followed, and they
were long since folded in their quiet dreams; and Lilian, unable to
sleep, had at last arisen and thrown on some garments, and wrapping a
great cloak about her, had stolen on deck. The person still pacing the
deck, who saw her ascend and flit along with her fair hair streaming
over her white cloak and her face shining white in the starlight,
might have taken her for a spirit. But he was not the kind of man that
believes in spirits. He went and leaned with her as she leaned over
the vessel's edge, and watched the glittering rent they made in the
water. They were side by side: now and then the wind blew the silken
ends of her hair across his cheek, and his hand lay over hers as it
rested on the rail; now and then they looked at one another; now and
then they spoke.
"Are you happy, Lilian?" he said.
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