Those 'few other people' depressed her.
'It isn't really a locality, though,' he said. 'It's a perfected
relation between you and me, and others--the perfect relation--so that
we are free together.'
'It is, my love, isn't it,' she said. 'It's you and me. It's you and
me, isn't it?' She stretched out her arms to him. He went across and
stooped to kiss her face. Her arms closed round him again, her hands
spread upon his shoulders, moving slowly there, moving slowly on his
back, down his back slowly, with a strange recurrent, rhythmic motion,
yet moving slowly down, pressing mysteriously over his loins, over his
flanks. The sense of the awfulness of riches that could never be
impaired flooded her mind like a swoon, a death in most marvellous
possession, mystic-sure. She possessed him so utterly and intolerably,
that she herself lapsed out. And yet she was only sitting still in the
chair, with her hands pressed upon him, and lost.
Again he softly kissed her.
'We shall never go apart again,' he murmured quietly.
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