She
wondered at herself somewhat vaguely. Surely she had never been like
this before, with the singular coldness about her heart and the
feeling of loss, of infinite loss.
What had she lost? She began to search her mind for an answer. Then
she smiled uncertainly, a wan, small smile. It was very clear; what
she had lost was all interest in life and all hope for the brave
tomorrow. Nothing remained of all those lovely dreams which she had
built up by day and night about the figure of Pierre le Rouge. He was
gone, and the bright-colored bubble she had blown vanished at once.
She felt a slight pain at her forehead and then remembered the cross
which Pierre had thrown into her face. Casting that away he had thrown
his faintest chance of victory with it; it would be a slaughter, not a
battle, and red-handed McGurk would leave one more foe behind him.
But looking down she found the cross and picked up the shining bit
of metal; it seemed as if she held the greater part of Pierre le Rouge
in her hands. She raised the cross to her lips.
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