'Are you sure you don't hurt your hand, doing that?' she asked,
solicitous. 'Because I could have done it PERFECTLY.'
'I don't hurt myself,' he said in a low, soft voice, that caressed her
with inexpressible beauty.
And she watched him as he sat near her, very near to her, in the stern
of the canoe, his legs coming towards hers, his feet touching hers. And
she paddled softly, lingeringly, longing for him to say something
meaningful to her. But he remained silent.
'You like this, do you?' she said, in a gentle, solicitous voice.
He laughed shortly.
'There is a space between us,' he said, in the same low, unconscious
voice, as if something were speaking out of him. And she was as if
magically aware of their being balanced in separation, in the boat. She
swooned with acute comprehension and pleasure.
'But I'm very near,' she said caressively, gaily.
'Yet distant, distant,' he said.
Again she was silent with pleasure, before she answered, speaking with
a reedy, thrilled voice:
'Yet we cannot very well change, whilst we are on the water.
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