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Curwood, James Oliver, 1879-1927

"The Courage of Marge O'Doone"




CHAPTER XXVII

It may have been five minutes that David held the Girl in his arms,
staring down into the sunlit valley into which the last two of Hauck's
men had fled, and during that time he did not speak, and he heard only
her steady sobbing. He drew into his lungs deep breaths of the
invigorating air, and he felt himself growing stronger as the Girl's
body became heavier in his embrace, and her arms relaxed and slipped
down from his shoulders. He raised her face. There were no tears in her
eyes, but she was still moaning a little, and her lips were quivering
like a crying child's. He bent his head and kissed them, and she caught
her breath pantingly as she looked at him with eyes which were limpid
pools of blue out of which her terror was slowly dying away. She
whispered his name. In her look and in that whisper there was
unutterable adoration. It was for _him_ she had been afraid. She was
looking at him now as one saved to her from the dead, and for a moment
he strained her still closer, and as he crushed his face to hers he felt
the warm, sweet caress of her lips, and the thrilling pressure of her
hands, at his blood-stained cheeks. A sound from behind made him turn
his head, and fifty feet away he saw the big grizzly ambling cumbrously
from the cabin.


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