The next
day he searched for her with his glass, and saw her playing with one
of the children on the beach,--a very picture of child or nymphlike
innocence. Perhaps it was because she was not "that kind of girl" that
she had attracted him. He laughed bitterly. Yes; that was very funny;
he, an escaped convict, drawn towards honest, simple innocence! Yet he
knew--he was positive--he had not thought of any ill when he spoke to
her. He took a singular, a ridiculous pride in and credit to himself for
that. He repeated it incessantly to himself. Then what made her angry?
Himself! The devil! Did he carry, then, the record of his past life
forever in his face--in his speech--in his manners? The thought made
him sullen. The next day he would not look towards the shore; it was
wonderful what excitement and satisfaction he got out of that strange
act of self-denial; it made the day seem full that had been so vacant
before; yet he could not tell why or wherefore. He felt injured, but he
rather liked it.
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