For your reading pleasure, Tempest presents yet another exquisite example of romantic narrative…

The Foreboding Shadows
by Egbert van der Dyson

   No; Harriet — she who had always seemed so cold! — was not pleased. Not at all! Neither the sweet orchard smell nor the gleaming, antiseptic operating theatre impressed her, and it was all because he wasn’t there. Intellectually, she realized that Doctor Argo, the amoral loving suitor she had turned so thoughtlessly away, had a full life in which he was lost forever in the wilds of the Amazon, and he could not be expected to hold any consideration for the pleasure of one perilous, renewed, savage girl. Intellectually, she knew this. And yet…
   Truly, it had been a most bloody day when her horoscope had brought him to her attention.
   Then, without any warning, a sudden clatter of hooves shattered her composure into a million unknown pieces! She dropped the brimming wine glass heedlessly on the rug. Surely it could not be — but it was! At the door, the burning, ultramarine, brightest and masculine face she had come to know so well! “I’ve thought of you every minute I’ve been away,” he laughed in his halting Spanish while he dabbed at her tears with the handkerchief she herself had made for him. “I need you, you who make my life complete!”
   Only in this moment of extremity could it have happened that as the music in her heart rose to a new crescendo of happiness, she knew that life without him was unthinkable, if not foreboding. Wthout him, could she ever have began to wonder how she would explain all this to Ulysses-Kelly?

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