Was he dreaming still, or had he waked? In a moment he
felt that he was acutely awake; he heard her, across the interval, turn
the page of her book. For a single instant, as she did so, she looked
with level brows at the glittering ocean; then, lowering her eyes, she
went on with her reading. In this barely perceptible movement he saw
Angela Vivian; it was wonderful how well he remembered her. She was
evidently reading very seriously; she was much interested in her book.
She was alone; Bernard looked about for her mother, but Mrs. Vivian
was not in sight. By this time Bernard had become aware that he was
agitated; the exquisite rest of a few moments before had passed away.
His agitation struck him as unreasonable; in a few minutes he made up
his mind that it was absurd. He had done her an injury--yes; but as she
sat there losing herself in a French novel--Bernard could see it was a
French novel--he could not make out that she was the worse for it. It
had not affected her appearance; Miss Vivian was still a handsome girl.
Bernard hoped she would not look toward him or recognize him; he wished
to look at her at his ease; to think it over; to make up his mind. The
idea of meeting Angela Vivian again had often come into his thoughts;
I may, indeed, say that it was a tolerably familiar presence there; but
the fact, nevertheless, now presented itself with all the violence of an
accident for which he was totally unprepared.
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