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Harte, Bret, 1836-1902

"A Ward of the Golden Gate"

He would win her, come what may! He could never have
been in earnest before: he loathed and hated himself for his
previous passive acquiescence to her fate. He had been a weak tool
of the colonel's from the first: he was even now handicapped by a
preposterous promise he had given him! Yes, she was right to
hesitate--to question his ability to make her happy! He had found
her here, surrounded by stupidity and cupidity--to give it no other
name--so patent that she was the common gossip, and had offered
nothing but a boyish declaration! As he strode into the hotel that
night it was well that he did not meet the unfortunate colonel on
the staircase!
It was very late, although there was still visible a light in
Yerba's salon, shining on her balcony, which extended before and
included his own window. From time to time he could hear the
murmur of voices. It was too late to avail himself of the
invitation to join them, even if his frame of mind had permitted
it. He was too nervous and excited to go to bed, and, without
lighting his candle, he opened the French window that gave upon the
balcony, drew a chair in the recess behind the curtain, and gazed
upon the night. It was very quiet; the moon was high, the square
was sleeping in a trance of checkered shadows, like a gigantic
chessboard, with black foreshortened trees for pawns.


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