She was thinking of a tall young man, who carried a very delicate,
tiny, blackdressed lady in his arms; she was thinking of a tall man,
who steered his small ship in between cliffs and rocks in a
devastating gale. She heard a whole conversation over again. She
blushed: Eugene Carlson might have thought that you were paying court
to him! With a little jealous association of ideas she continued: No
one would ever run after Clara in a wood in the rainstorm, she would
never have invited a stranger--literally asked him--to sail with her.
"Lady to her fingertips," Carlson had said of Clara; that really was a
reprimand for you, you peasant-girl Camilla! Then she undressed with
affected slowness, went to bed, took a small elegantly bound book from
the bookshelf near by and opened the first page. She read through a
short hand-written poem with a tired, bitter expression
on her face, then let the book drop to the floor and burst into tears;
afterwards she tenderly picked it up again, put it back in its place
and blew out the candle; lay there for a little while gazing
disconsolately at the moonlit blind, and finally went to sleep.
A few days later the "rainman" started on his way to Cape Trafalgar. He
met a peasant driving a load of rye straw, and received permission to
ride with him. Then he lay down on his back in the straw and gazed at
the cloudless sky. The first couple of miles he let his thoughts come
and go as they listed, besides there wasn't much variety in them.
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