But his thoughts were running in a circle of questions and enigmas
for which he found neither end nor answer.
For the hundredth time Pierre proposed to himself the tormenting
enigma, harder, he thought, to solve than any problem of
mathematics,--for it was the riddle of his life: "What thoughts are
truly in the heart of Amelie de Repentigny respecting me? Does she
recollect me only as her brother's companion, who may possibly have
some claim upon her friendship, but none upon her love?" His
imagination pictured every look she had given him since his return.
Not all! Oh, Pierre Philibert! the looks you would have given
worlds to catch, you were unconscious of! Every word she had
spoken, the soft inflection of every syllable of her silvery voice
lingered in his ear. He had caught meanings where perhaps no
meaning was, and missed the key to others which he knew were there--
never, perhaps, to be revealed to him. But although he questioned
in the name of love, and found many divine echoes in her words,
imperceptible to every ear but his own, he could not wholly solve
the riddle of his life.
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