” “He seems like such a nice boy. A strong arm pulled her closer, and the lips that mouthed her own in tender touches sent her senses reeling. He wondered why she thought love made people happy, and began to talk of the smilax and pinks that adorned the table. It may be instinctive; it may be that children vaguely realize that at the end of all wedding journeys is disillusion. Even this man-hunting machine was willing to grant the boy his honeymoon. He accepted this confession conditionally: that no young man had kissed her. To these she added the wine and spirits directed, and when all was arranged looked inquisitively at her master. It probably still wouldn’t help. ” She shook her head deliberately, hopelessly. The streets were full of colour. Wanted her out of the way because he had been afraid of her, afraid of himself! He, at fifty-four! Then into this void poured a flaming anger, a blind and unreasoning anger. ” “That is another French custom,” he remarked, “which is not so agreeable. . .
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