In Sunlight and in Shadow Read Online Free PDF Page B

even the smallest detail of her. Had she known of each or perhaps any one of the specifics, she would have had the evidence that she had begun to sense, and that had begun to sweep over her in the rare feeling of being adored. Although she had neither designed nor sewn her blouse, nor accomplished the sinuous, restrained embroidery, nor given to the embroidery the gray and rose color of mother-of-pearl, she had put it on, and it embraced her hour by hour, absorbing the heat of her body and the scent of her perfume. The collar, the buttonhole, the button, the threads that made a basket knot within the button’s ivory recess, became for him more than just a symbol, for he had never loved just a symbol, but a part of her—touched, regarded, accepted, and chosen by her.
    And of other things about her that overwhelmed him there were many. Her hands and the way she held them, unconsciously. And yet her fingers never existed in relation to each other except beautifully, no matter how they moved or where they came to rest. My God, he thought, she has beautiful hands. Every syllable she uttered, the way she pronounced every word, the bell-like quality of her voice. Her grace when she moved, or when she was still. Even the few wrinkles in her skirt. The line of her neck as it rose from the top of her chest. Her bosom, though he hardly dared look, but did. And beyond all that, far beyond it, he took the greatest pleasure in anticipating the surprise, delight, fascination, anger, and love with which she would greet all that she would encounter for the rest of her life. He wanted to listen to her history, to know her microscopically and also from afar, to see her and also to see through the eyes that now held him in thrall.
    This unreasonable heat was chilled only by the occasional currents of his fear that he would assume too much and move too fast, or that she was spoken for and would not transfer her allegiance, or that if she did abandon someone else she would someday abandon him. But each anxiety was outweighed by the moment itself, which gave rise to an uncalculated grace in which even their silences were perfect and needed no saving.
    “I have no idea,” he said, “how old you are, what you do, or where you live. The effect is that, somehow, you do everything and you live on the Staten Island Ferry. So I don’t know where to begin.”
    “Begin what?” she asked, her severity in reserve but detectable in response to his having stepped over the line.
    “A conversation,” he responded, barely saving himself.
    As they sped over the water toward Manhattan, she said, “I could say that I didn’t expect to go back to the city today, or to see you again.”
    He was astounded. “You saw me earlier?”
    “I did. You were moving swiftly around the decks. I thought you were chasing someone. Are you a policeman? Whom were you chasing?”
    He made no comment except a slight, self-incriminating smile.
    “Oh,” she said. “Uh-huh. In that case I can confess that I threw my paper in the trash can near you to wake you up. I hadn’t finished it.”
    “If you want to do confessions, I can do better than that,” he said. “I was thinking of taking the ferry every day, all day long, though it would have been really inconvenient.”
    “Do you live on Staten Island?”
    “No. You?”
    “Not even slightly.”
    “You were going to stay there a while?”
    “No.”
    “You were going to stay there forever, immigrate?” he asked.
    “There is another possibility,” she said. This game meant nothing for either of them other than that it was an opportunity to remain in one another’s presence, and a way for him not to ask, intrusively, what she was doing on Staten Island, a question that may have choked the bud of many an incipient romance.
    “You were going to go on to someplace else. Elizabeth?”
    “Catherine,” she said, teasingly, as if he were an idiot.
    “Elizabeth, New Jersey?”
    “Catherine Sedley.”
    “Catherine