The gun flew from his hand, clacking on the floor. Automatically, she glanced at the slight red graze left on her neck that marked the point where Gerald’s sword had nicked her. They did not speak until he had driven past town limits and were on the highway. No blowzy barmaids for him to-day: an American bar-keep to whom he could tell his troubles and receive the proper meed of sympathy. It’s—Mrs. 58 \"Why will you not touch me?\" She cried out, sitting up, her head in her hands. Oh, the scent of the flowers that day, the delicious quiet, the swallows that dived before us in the river. Ennison spoke at last.
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