She began at once a hasty readjustment of her hair, while Ramage parleyed with inaudible interrogations. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. She could feel her body rebel against her actions, convulsing, so she forced herself to think of her mother in Heaven, her mother's beautiful face, the sun dancing across the rivers of her home. “Then turn round and go back there,” she directed. But I don't look for peace on this side the grave. He stalked her, he stared at her, he craved her, he sidled slinking and propitiatory and yet relentlessly toward her, until at last she awoke from the suffocating nightmare nearness of his approach, and lay awake in fear and horror listening to the unaccustomed sounds of the hotel. But this revulsion was engulfed by the succeeding waves of pity and understanding. From what she could tell, he truly had convinced himself that he was in love with her, but she knew that his ardor would fade eventually inasmuch as she knew John’s would. . "What do you want?" he asked, in a gruff voice.
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