Your
valet is a rough groom," said she, taking off his hat and passing
her finger through his thick, fair locks.
Pierre, although always dressed and trimmed like a gentleman, really
cared little for the petit maitre fashions of the day. Never had he
felt a thrill of such exquisite pleasure as when Amelie's hands
arranged his rough hair to her fancy.
"My blessed Amelie!" said he with emotion, pressing her finger to
his lips, "never since my mother combed my boyish locks has a
woman's hand touched my hair until now."
Leaning her head fondly against the shoulder of Pierre, she bade him
repeat to her again, to her who had not forgotten one word or
syllable of the tale he had told her before, the story of his love.
She listened with moistened eyelids and heaving bosom as he told her
again of his faithfulness in the past, his joys in the present, and
his hopes in the future. She feared to look up lest she should
break the charm, but when he had ended she turned to him
passionately and kissed his lips and his hands, murmuring, "Thanks,
my Pierre, I will be a true and loving wife to you!"
He strained her to his bosom, and held her fast, as if fearful to
let her go.
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