His particular trick of speaking of any third person as of a lay
figure was exasperating. Yet at the moment I did not know how to
resent it, but, in any case, Dona Rita would not have given me
time. Without a moment's hesitation she cried out:
"I only wish he could take me out there with him."
For a moment Mr. Blunt's face became as still as a mask and then
instead of an angry it assumed an indulgent expression. As to me I
had a rapid vision of Dominic's astonishment, awe, and sarcasm
which was always as tolerant as it is possible for sarcasm to be.
But what a charming, gentle, gay, and fearless companion she would
have made! I believed in her fearlessness in any adventure that
would interest her. It would be a new occasion for me, a new
viewpoint for that faculty of admiration she had awakened in me at
sight--at first sight--before she opened her lips--before she ever
turned her eyes on me. She would have to wear some sort of sailor
costume, a blue woollen shirt open at the throat. . . . Dominic's
hooded cloak would envelop her amply, and her face under the black
hood would have a luminous quality, adolescent charm, and an
enigmatic expression. The confined space of the little vessel's
quarterdeck would lend itself to her cross-legged attitudes, and
the blue sea would balance gently her characteristic immobility
that seemed to hide thoughts as old and profound as itself. As
restless, too--perhaps.
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