Strange
how her reverential, almost ecstatic admiration of the flowers caressed
his nerves. She stooped down, and touched the trumpets, with infinitely
fine and delicate-touching finger-tips. It filled him with ease to see
her. When she rose, her eyes, hot with the beauty of the flowers,
looked into his.
'What are they?' she asked.
'Sort of petunia, I suppose,' he answered. 'I don't really know them.'
'They are quite strangers to me,' she said.
They stood together in a false intimacy, a nervous contact. And he was
in love with her.
She was aware of Mademoiselle standing near, like a little French
beetle, observant and calculating. She moved away with Winifred, saying
they would go to find Bismarck.
Gerald watched them go, looking all the while at the soft, full, still
body of Gudrun, in its silky cashmere. How silky and rich and soft her
body must be. An excess of appreciation came over his mind, she was the
all-desirable, the all-beautiful. He wanted only to come to her,
nothing more.
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