"I believed in you before you . . . before you gave me your confidence,"
she began. "You could see that. Could you not?"
He looked at her fixedly. "You are not the first that believed in me,"
he said.
Hassim, lounging with his back against the closed door, kept his eye on
him watchfully and Immada's dark and sorrowful eyes rested on the face
of the white woman. Mrs. Travers felt as though she were engaged in
a contest with them; in a struggle for the possession of that man's
strength and of that man's devotion. When she looked up at Lingard she
saw on his face--which should have been impassive or exalted, the face
of a stern leader or the face of a pitiless dreamer--an expression
of utter forgetfulness. He seemed to be tasting the delight of some
profound and amazing sensation. And suddenly in the midst of her appeal
to his generosity, in the middle of a phrase, Mrs. Travers faltered,
becoming aware that she was the object of his contemplation.
"Do not! Do not look at that woman!" cried Immada. "O! Master--look
away. . . ." Hassim threw one arm round the girl's neck. Her voice sank.
"O! Master--look at us." Hassim, drawing her to himself, covered her
lips with his hand. She struggled a little like a snared bird and
submitted, hiding her face on his shoulder, very quiet, sobbing without
noise.
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