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- Колин Маккалоу
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- Стр. 290/535
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Still
she
was
looking
into
his
eyes
,
her
own
filling
with
shame
,
humiliation
,
but
as
the
expressions
flew
across
his
face
to
the
final
one
of
despairing
pity
she
seemed
to
realize
the
magnitude
of
her
mistake
,
the
horror
of
it
.
And
more
than
that
:
the
fact
that
he
knew
her
mistake
.
Go
,
run
!
Run
,
Meggie
,
get
out
of
here
with
the
scrap
of
pride
he
's
left
you
!
The
instant
she
thought
it
she
acted
on
it
,
she
was
up
out
of
her
chair
and
fleeing
.
Before
she
could
reach
the
veranda
he
caught
her
,
the
impetus
of
her
flight
spinning
her
round
against
him
so
hard
he
staggered
.
It
did
n't
matter
,
any
of
it
,
the
grueling
battle
to
retain
his
soul
's
integrity
,
the
long
pressing
down
of
will
upon
desire
;
in
moments
he
had
gone
lifetimes
.
All
that
power
held
dormant
,
sleeping
,
only
needing
the
detonation
of
a
touch
to
trigger
a
chaos
in
which
mind
was
subservient
to
passion
,
mind
's
will
extinguished
in
body
's
will
.
Up
slid
her
arms
around
his
neck
,
his
across
her
back
,
spasmed
;
he
bent
his
head
,
groped
with
his
mouth
for
hers
,
found
it
.
Her
mouth
,
no
longer
an
unwanted
,
unwelcome
memory
but
real
;
her
arms
about
him
as
if
she
could
n't
bear
to
let
him
go
;
the
way
she
seemed
to
lose
even
the
feel
of
her
bones
;
how
dark
she
was
like
the
night
,
tangled
memory
and
desire
,
unwanted
memory
and
unwelcome
desire
.
The
years
he
must
have
longed
for
this
,
longed
for
her
and
denied
her
power
,
kept
himself
even
from
the
thought
of
her
as
a
woman
!
Did
he
carry
her
to
the
bed
,
or
did
they
walk
?
He
thought
he
must
have
carried
her
,
but
he
could
not
be
sure
;
only
that
she
was
there
upon
it
,
he
was
there
upon
it
,
her
skin
under
his
hands
,
his
skin
under
hers
.
Oh
,
God
!
My
Meggie
,
my
Meggie
!
How
could
they
rear
me
from
infancy
to
think
you
profanation
?
Time
ceased
to
tick
and
began
to
flow
,
washed
over
him
until
it
had
no
meaning
,
only
a
depth
of
dimension
more
real
than
real
time
.
He
could
feel
her
yet
he
did
not
feel
her
,
not
as
a
separate
entity
;
wanting
to
make
her
finally
and
forever
a
part
of
himself
,
a
graft
which
was
himself
,
not
a
symbiosis
which
acknowledged
her
as
distinct
.
Never
again
would
he
not
know
the
up-thrusts
of
breasts
and
belly
and
buttocks
;
the
folds
and
crevices
in
between
.
Truly
she
was
made
for
him
,
for
he
had
made
her
;
for
sixteen
years
he
had
shaped
and
molded
her
without
knowing
that
he
did
,
let
alone
why
he
did
.
And
he
forgot
that
he
had
ever
given
her
away
,
that
another
man
had
shown
her
the
end
of
what
he
had
begun
for
himself
,
had
always
intended
for
himself
,
for
she
was
his
downfall
,
his
rose
;
his
creation
.
It
was
a
dream
from
which
he
would
never
again
awaken
,
not
as
long
as
he
was
a
man
,
with
a
man
's
body
.
Oh
,
dear
God
!
I
know
,
I
know
!
I
know
why
I
kept
her
as
an
idea
and
a
child
within
me
for
so
long
after
she
had
grown
beyond
both
,
but
why
does
it
have
to
be
learned
like
this
?
Because
at
last
he
understood
that
what
he
had
aimed
to
be
was
not
a
man
.
Not
a
man
,
never
a
man
;
something
far
greater
,
something
beyond
the
fate
of
a
mere
man
.
Yet
after
all
his
fate
was
here
under
his
hands
,
struck
quivering
and
alight
with
him
,
her
man
.
A
man
,
forever
a
man
.
Dear
Lord
,
couldst
Thou
not
have
kept
this
from
me
?
I
am
a
man
,
I
can
never
be
God
;
it
was
a
delusion
,
that
life
in
search
of
godhead
.
Are
we
all
the
same
,
we
priests
,
yearning
to
be
God
?
We
abjure
the
one
act
which
irrefutably
proves
us
men
.
He
wrapped
his
arms
about
her
and
looked
down
with
eyes
full
of
tears
at
the
still
,
faintly
lit
face
,
watched
its
rosebud
mouth
drop
open
,
gasp
,
become
a
helpless
O
of
astonished
pleasure
.
Her
arms
and
legs
were
round
him
,
living
ropes
which
bound
him
to
her
,
silkily
,
sleekly
tormented
him
;
he
put
his
chin
into
her
shoulder
and
his
cheek
against
the
softness
of
hers
,
gave
himself
over
to
the
maddening
,
exasperating
drive
of
a
man
grappling
with
fate
.
His
mind
reeled
,
slipped
,
became
utterly
dark
and
blindingly
bright
;
for
one
moment
he
was
within
the
sun
,
then
the
brilliance
faded
,
grew
grey
,
and
went
out
.
This
was
being
a
man
.
He
could
be
no
more
.
But
that
was
not
the
source
of
the
pain
.
The
pain
was
in
the
final
moment
,
the
finite
moment
,
the
empty
,
desolate
realization
:
ecstasy
is
fleeting
.
He
could
n't
bear
to
let
her
go
,
not
now
that
he
had
her
;
he
had
made
her
for
himself
.
So
he
clung
to
her
like
a
drowning
man
to
a
spar
in
a
lonely
sea
,
and
soon
,
buoyant
,
rising
again
on
a
tide
grown
quickly
familiar
,
he
succumbed
to
the
inscrutable
fate
which
is
a
man
's
.
*
*
*
