On it were sketched two people. One was a
figure with her hair streaming down--Celie herself. The other was
a man. The girl had pictured herself close in the embrace of this
man's arms. Her own arms encircled the man's neck. From the
picture Philip had looked at Celie, and the look he had seen in
her eyes and face filled his heart with a leaden chill. It was
more than hope that had flared up in his breast since he had
entered Brara Johnson's cabin. And now that hope went suddenly
out, and with its extinguishment he was oppressed by a deep and
gloomy foreboding.
He went slowly to the window and looked out.
The next moment Celie was startled by the sudden sharp cry that
burst from his lips. Swiftly she ran to his side. He had dropped
the paper. His hands were gripping the edge of the sill, and he
was staring like one who could not believe his own eyes.
"Good God--look! Look at that!"
They had heard no sound outside the cabin during the last few
minutes. Yet under their eyes, stretched out in the soiled and
trampled snow, lay the wolf that a short time before had been
gnawing a bone.
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