Of course, the explanation was simple. Some animal had
made the place its nest. But then what animal was ever known to
sleep so soundly as not to be disturbed by human footsteps? If
wounded, and so unable to escape, it would not be breathing with
that quiet, soft regularity, contrasting so strangely with the
stillness and the silence all round. Possibly an owl's nest. Young
owlets make that sort of noise--the "snorers," so country people
call them. Young Raffleton threw away his cigar and went down upon
his knees to grope among the shadows, and, doing so, he touched
something warm and soft and yielding.
But it wasn't an owl. He must have touched her very lightly, for
even then she did not wake. She lay there with her head upon her
arm. And now close to her, his eyes growing used to the shadows, he
saw her quite plainly, the wonder of the parted lips, the gleam of
the white limbs beneath their flimsy covering.
Of course, what he ought to have done was to have risen gently and
moved away. Then he could have coughed. And if that did not wake
her he might have touched her lightly, say, on the shoulder, and
have called to her, first softly, then a little louder,
"Mademoiselle," or "Mon enfant." Even better, he might have stolen
away on tiptoe and left her there sleeping.
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