As the man drew near she recognized the well-known figure, air and gait;
she had of the identity. She hastened to meet him, exclaiming in a low,
eager tone:
"Thurston! dear Thurston!"
The man paused, folded his cloak about him, drew up, and stood perfectly
still.
Why did he not answer her? Why did he not speak to her? Why did he stand
so motionless, and look so strange? She could not have seen the
expression of his countenance, even if a flap of his cloak had not been
folded across his face; but his whole form shook as with an ague fit.
"Thurston! dear Thurston!" she exclaimed once more, under her breath, as
she pressed toward him.
But he suddenly stretched out his hand to repulse her, gasping, as it
were, breathlessly, "Not yet--not yet!" and again his whole frame shook
with an inward storm. What could be the reason of his strange behavior?
Oh, some misfortune had happened to him--that was evident! Would it were
only of a nature that her own good news might be able to cure. And it
might be so. Full of this thought, she was again pressing toward him,
when a violent flurry of rain and wind whistled before her and drove
into her face, concealing him from her view. When the sudden gust as
suddenly passed, she saw that he remained in the same spot, his breast
heaving, his whole form shaking.
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