Of the struggle’s beacon-light;
Think of me who cannot ask
Aught beyond my petty task;
Think of me beside the ember
Of a silent hearthstone set,
Where I dare not all remember
And I cannot all forget . . .”
CHAPTER 20.
Sleep eluded her. Wide awake, she lay on her back, staring into the tepid darkness and listening to the whisper of a thin, spring rain. Her thoughts were of Raymond Dilling.
Only at night, beyond the reach of prying eyes, did Azalea dare to open the doors of her soul’s concealment. Only then did she allow herself the freedom of the emotion that possessed her, and enjoy the warmth of a communion that no one could suspect. Her thoughts were like perfumed caresses . . . tender, delicate, and as they held him in sweet contact, she glowed with the reflection of their radiance, conscious that her entire being was suffused with a light—an ectoplasm—visible to the naked eye.