Would she come? I remembered her
unyielding decision, her unflinching sincerity. The rain broke now
suddenly, and came roaring down the hill towards the creek. Outside the
branches of elms dragged, with a snapping of twigs, across the brittle
roof. A rusty stream of water crawled sizzling down the pipe of the
stove. It was hot--hot with the intolerable hotness of steam. The
patchwork quilt looked thick and unsmoothed. I reflected that it never
could look smoothed. And how their personalities bore down upon one with
a swamping sensation! Miss Etta and Grega and Mr. Lin Darton were
gathered into a corner of the room and an occasional whispering escaped
them. The oppression was terrific. I began to want Lisbeth, to long for
her to come, as she would come, like a cool blade cutting through
density. And yet--I was not sure. I found myself staring through the
black, shiny surface of the window, seeking relief in the obscuring
dark. It gave little vision, except its own distorted reflections, but I
could distinguish vaguely the outlines of the old mill with the shadowly
raft in the high branches and the smudgy round spots that I knew to be
the turkeys roosting.
A fiercer current tore at the framework of the mill-house. The water
rapped pitilessly against the pane.
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