She had been in the drawing-room for a few minutes before the gong had sounded, and had chattered gaily to every one. A familiar ache of wanting made itself more insistent in her belly. The latter began to heave himself up from the sand. Nevertheless, she could not prevent a rising excitement as the dawn of the new life drew near to her—a thrilling of the nerves, a secret and delicious exaltation above the common circumstances of existence. “Don’t be an ass, Ferringhall,” he said tersely. "One word before we part, adorable girl— only one," he continued, detaining her. Thrilling, she began to dance, swirled, glided, and dipped. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. And, fearing you might not come to me, I forced my way hither, even with certainty of discomposing your friends.
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