'Yes,' he said.
'But opals are unlucky, aren't they?' she said wistfully.
'No. I prefer unlucky things. Luck is vulgar. Who wants what LUCK would
bring? I don't.'
'But why?' she laughed.
And, consumed with a desire to see how the other rings would look on
her hand, she put them on her little finger.
'They can be made a little bigger,' he said.
'Yes,' she replied, doubtfully. And she sighed. She knew that, in
accepting the rings, she was accepting a pledge. Yet fate seemed more
than herself. She looked again at the jewels. They were very beautiful
to her eyes-not as ornament, or wealth, but as tiny fragments of
loveliness.
'I'm glad you bought them,' she said, putting her hand, half
unwillingly, gently on his arm.
He smiled, slightly. He wanted her to come to him. But he was angry at
the bottom of his soul, and indifferent. He knew she had a passion for
him, really. But it was not finally interesting. There were depths of
passion when one became impersonal and indifferent, unemotional.
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