The rain was swishing
in the trees with a hiss that forbade delay.
She threw herself, panting and terror-stricken, into the cave-like
opening under the porch, her knees giving way after the supreme
effort. The great storm broke as she crouched far back against the
wall; her hands over her ears, her eyes tightly closed. She was safe
from wind and rain, but not from the sounds of that awful conflict.
The lantern lay at her feet, sending its ray out into the storm with
the senseless fidelity of a beacon light.
"Penelope!" came a voice through the storm, and a second later a
man plunged into the recess, crashing against the wall beside her.
Something told her who it was, even before he dropped beside her and
threw his strong arm about her shoulders. The sound of the storm died
away as she buried her face on his shoulder and shivered so mightily
that he was alarmed. With her face burning, her blood tingling, she
lay there and wondered if the throbbing of her heart were not about to
kill her.
He was crying something into her ear--wild, incoherent words
that seemed to have the power to quiet the storm. And she was
responding--she knew that eager words were falling from her lips,
but she never knew what they were--responding with a fervor that was
overwhelming her with joy. Lips met again and again and there was no
thought of the night, of the feud, the escapade, the Renwood ghost--or
of aught save the two warm living human bodies that had found each
other.
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