The night had swallowed him up, but his work on her was done. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. Dieu du ciel! Gerald was kissing her! She struggled to be free, and the arms that held her loosened, the lips leaving hers. You represented to us the immaculate Briton, the one Englishman who typified the Saxonism, if I may coin a word, of our race. You did not say a word about it last week, nor have you written. He bowed over her hand, venturing to drop a kiss on it’s leathery surface. 275 “Yes!” She answered, feeling joy and fear well in her chest. Her hands wove through his black hair, luxuriating in its thickness. You have darkened your eyebrows, you have even changed your style of dress. ’ Gerald grinned.
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