At the same time--being a woman--she knew that she
would not run. Something would stay her feet.
With wide-open eyes on this Midsummer morning she lay, as she had lain
the night before, regarding without attention the early sunlight
flooding the room where moonlight had lain a few hours ago. Her bare,
round arms, from which picturesque apologies for sleeves fell back, were
thrown wide upon her pillows, her white throat and shoulders gleamed
below the loose masses of her hair, her heart was beating a trifle more
rapidly than was natural after a night of repose.
It was very early, as a little clock upon a desk announced--half after
five. Yet some one in the house was up, for Roberta heard a light
footfall outside her door. There followed a soft sound which drew her
eyes that way; she saw something white appear beneath the door--in the
old house the sills were not tight. The white rectangle was obviously a
letter.
Her curiosity alive, she lay looking at this apparition for some time,
unwilling to be heard to move even by a maidservant. But at length she
arose, stole across the floor, picked up the missive, and went back to
her bed.
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