"You are not going to lie awake
over this?"
She shook her head. "Good-night," she said again.
He watched her down the passage, and then returned to his writing.
He smiled to himself as he sat down, but this time wholly without
cynicism.
"No, Nick, my boy," he said, as he drove his pen into the ink. "She
won't lie awake for you. But she'll cry herself to sleep for your
sake, you gibbering, one-armed ape. And the new love will be the old
love before the week is out, or I am no weather prophet."
CHAPTER XXXVIII
THE WATCHER OF THE CLIFF
The gale that raged along the British coasts that autumn was the
wildest that had been known for years. It swelled quite suddenly out
of the last breezes of a superb summer, and by the middle of September
it had become a monster of destruction, devastating the shore. The
crumbling cliffs of Brethaven testified to its violence. Beating
rain and colossal, shattering waves united to accomplish ruin and
destruction. And the little fishing-village looked on aghast.
It was on the third day of the storm that news was brought to Nick
of a landslip on his own estate. He had been in town ever since his
guests' departure, and had only returned on the previous evening. He
did not contemplate a long stay. The place was lonely without Olga,
and he was not yet sufficiently proficient in shooting with one arm to
enjoy the sport, especially in solitude.
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