To support her in his arms was of course
the impulse of a moment. There was no water to be had, and he could
think of nothing else but to hold her tenderly till she came round
again. Certainly he desired nothing more.
Again he asked himself, what did it all mean?
He waited, looking down upon her tired eyelids, and at the row of
lashes lying upon each cheek, whose natural roundness showed itself
in singular perfection now that the customary pink had given place
to a pale luminousness caught from the surrounding atmosphere. The
dumpy ringlets about her forehead and behind her poll, which were
usually as tight as springs, had been partially uncoiled by the
wildness of her ride, and hung in split locks over her forehead and
neck. John, who, during the long months of his absence, had lived
only to meet her again, was in a state of ecstatic reverence, and
bending down he gently kissed her.
Anne was just becoming conscious.
'O, Mr. Derriman, never, never!' she murmured, sweeping her face
with her hand.
'I thought he was at the bottom of it,' said John.
Anne opened her eyes, and started back from him. 'What is it?' she
said wildly.
'You are ill, my dear Miss Garland,' replied John in trembling
anxiety, and taking her hand.
'I am not ill, I am wearied out!' she said. 'Can't we walk on? How
far are we from Overcombe?'
'About a mile. But tell me, somebody has been hurting you--
frightening you. I know who it was; it was Derriman, and that was
his horse.
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