"
"Monsieur," said Angelique, thinking of an obstacle which might block
his way, "I am a Catholic, and you are not."
"Priests don't frighten me. And Father Olivier is too sensible an old
fellow to object to setting you in the car of my ambition."
They stood in silence.
"Good-night, Monsieur Zhone," said Angelique. "Don't wait."
"But I shall wait," said Rice.
He had bowed and turned away to the currant hedge, and Angelique was
entering her father's lawn, when he came back impetuously. He framed her
cheeks in his hands, and she could feel rather than see the power of
possession in his eyes.
"Angelique!" he said, and the word rushed through her like flame. She
recoiled, but Rice Jones was again in his father's garden, moving like a
shadow toward the house, before she stirred. Whether it was the trick of
the orator or the irrepressible outburst of passion, that appeal
continued to ring in her ears and to thrill.
More disturbed than she had ever been before by the tactics of a lover,
Angelique hurried up the back gallery steps, to find Peggy Morrison
sitting in her chamber window, cross-legged, leaning over with one palm
supporting a pointed chin.
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