CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Mr Jones, after firing his shot over Heyst's shoulder, had thought it
proper to dodge away. Like the spectre he was, he noiselessly vanished
from the veranda. Heyst stumbled into the room and looked around. All
the objects in there--the books, portrait on the wall--seemed shadowy,
unsubstantial, the dumb accomplices of an amazing dream-plot ending in
an illusory effect of awakening and the impossibility of ever closing
his eyes again. With dread he forced himself to look at the girl. Still
in the chair, she was leaning forward far over her knees, and had hidden
her face in her hands. Heyst remembered Wang suddenly. How clear all
this was--and how extremely amusing! Very.
She sat up a little, then leaned back, and taking her hands from her
face, pressed both of them to her breast as if moved to the heart by
seeing him there looking at her with a black, horror-struck curiosity.
He would have pitied her, if the triumphant expression of her face had
not given him a shock which destroyed the balance of his feelings. She
spoke with an accent of wild joy:
"I knew you would come back in time! You are safe now. I have done it!
I would never, never have let him--" Her voice died out, while her eyes
shone at him as when the sun breaks through a mist. "Never get it back.
Oh, my beloved!"
He bowed his head gravely, and said in his polite.
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