Paul was busy in bundling Miriam up in her cloak, shawls and
furs. And then Mr. Willcoxen approached to raise her in his arms, and
take her through the snow; but--
"No! no!" said Miriam, shuddering and crouching closely to Paul. Little
knowing her thoughts, Mr. Willcoxen slightly smiled, and pulling his hat
low over his eyes, and turning up his fur collar and wrapping his cloak
closely around him, he strode on rapidly before them. The snow was
blowing in their faces, but drawing Miriam fondly to his side, Paul
hurried after him.
When they reached the park gate, Thurston was laboring to open it
against the drifted snow. He succeeded, and pushed the gate back to let
them pass. Miriam, as she went through, raised her eyes to his form.
There he stood, in night and storm, his tall form shrouded in the long
black cloak--the hat drawn over his eyes, the faint spectral gleam of
the snow striking upward to his clear-cut profile, the peculiar fall of
ghostly light and shade, the strong individuality of air and attitude.
With a half-stifled shriek, Miriam recognized the distinct picture of
the man she had seen twice before with Marian.
"What is the matter, love? Were you near falling? Give me your arm,
Miriam--you need us both to help you through this storm," said Thurston,
approaching her.
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