Until his
house was completed and his belongings arrived, Peter undoubtedly
had borrowed it. Suddenly a wild desire to escape swept over
Marian. Her first thought was of her feelings. She was angry,
and justly so. In her heart she had begun to feel that the
letters she was receiving were from Peter Morrison. Here was the
proof.
Could it be possible that in their one meeting Peter had decided
that she was his dream woman, that in some way he had secured
that rough sketch of her plans, and from them was preparing her
dream house for her? The thought sped through her brain that he
was something more than human to have secured those plans, to
have found that secluded and choice location. For an instant she
forgot the loss of the competition in trying to comprehend the
wonder of finding her own particular house fitting her own
particular location as naturally as one of its big boulders.
She tried to replace the package of letters exactly as she had
found them. On tiptoe she slipped back to the door and looked
searchingly down the road, around, and as far as possible through
the house. Then she gathered her skirts, stepped from the
garage, and began the process of effacing herself on the mountain
side From clump to clump of the thickest bushes, crouching below
the sage and greasewood, pausing to rest behind lilac and elder,
with. out regard for her traveling suit or her beautifully shod
feet, Marian fled from her location.
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