To-day, however, the
white summits were invisible; their heads were muffled in sullen clouds
and the valleys beneath them curtained in dun-colored mist. Rowland had
a book in his pocket, and he took it out and opened it. But his page
remained unturned; his own thoughts were more importunate. His interview
with Christina Light had made a great impression upon him, and he was
haunted with the memory of her almost blameless bitterness, and of all
that was tragic and fatal in her latest transformation. These things
were immensely appealing, and Rowland thought with infinite impatience
of Roderick's having again encountered them. It required little
imagination to apprehend that the young sculptor's condition had
also appealed to Christina. His consummate indifference, his supreme
defiance, would make him a magnificent trophy, and Christina had
announced with sufficient distinctness that she had said good-by to
scruples. It was her fancy at present to treat the world as a garden of
pleasure, and if, hitherto, she had played with Roderick's passion on
its stem, there was little doubt that now she would pluck it with an
unfaltering hand and drain it of its acrid sweetness.
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