Her thoughts were busy with the possibilities of this break in her journey. “I’d give anything to kiss your neck. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. She produced a handkerchief, and with one sweep of this and a simultaneous gulp had abolished her fit of weeping. He recalled with exasperating perplexity her clear, matter-of-fact tone as she talked about love-making being unconvincing. She told her husband that she wished her nothing more than her own death. I could never make you understand.
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