The delight of the turnkeys was beyond all bounds; but poor Mrs. Bit priggish, isn’t it? And if he only knew it—so absurd. All other things were without weight or consequence before the fact that this poor young man would have to depend upon her for his life. “Why not?” “Because you are mine. He devoured her with his eyes too, his shyness not able to disguise his furtive glances at the curvy outline of her breast against the imitation silk, his memory still exquisitely tortured by her movements in the miniskirt. On the one hand, she seemed to think plainly and simply, and would talk serenely and freely about topics that most women have been trained either to avoid or conceal; and on the other she was unconscious, or else she had an air of being unconscious—that was the riddle—to all sorts of personal applications that almost any girl or woman, one might have thought, would have made. Paris, always beautiful even in the darkness, glittered away to the horizon. This is not true at all.
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