Had he seen her in time, he would have fled
from the meeting, but she appeared without warning as he turned from the
turnpike to the bars. Almost before he was aware of it, he was within
touch of her and looking into her eyes. She wore her black dress still,
and the air of elegance, of strangeness, was even more obvious than when
he had met her at Applegate the day before his marriage. Her face had
lost a little of its bloom, and there was a look in it which he had
never seen there before--a look which was wistful and yet expectant, as
though, like old Reuben, she was hoping against knowledge and in despite
of disappointment.
"Molly!" he cried, and stopped short, longing to touch her hand and
yet with something, which was like conscience in the shape of Judy,
restraining him.
"Abel, how little you've changed!" she said.
"Haven't I? Well, you're yourself, too, and yet you're different."
"Different? I suppose you mean I'm wearing better clothes?"
He smiled for the first time. "I wasn't thinking about your clothes.
They never seemed to matter."
What he had meant, though he dared not utter the thought aloud, was that
she had grown softer and gentler, and was less the Molly of the flashing
charm and the defiant challenge.
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