So she was passed away and gone in him, and he was perfected.
When she opened her eyes again, and saw the patch of lights in the
distance, it seemed to her strange that the world still existed, that
she was standing under the bridge resting her head on Gerald's breast.
Gerald--who was he? He was the exquisite adventure, the desirable
unknown to her.
She looked up, and in the darkness saw his face above her, his shapely,
male face. There seemed a faint, white light emitted from him, a white
aura, as if he were visitor from the unseen. She reached up, like Eve
reaching to the apples on the tree of knowledge, and she kissed him,
though her passion was a transcendent fear of the thing he was,
touching his face with her infinitely delicate, encroaching wondering
fingers. Her fingers went over the mould of his face, over his
features. How perfect and foreign he was--ah how dangerous! Her soul
thrilled with complete knowledge. This was the glistening, forbidden
apple, this face of a man. She kissed him, putting her fingers over his
face, his eyes, his nostrils, over his brows and his ears, to his neck,
to know him, to gather him in by touch.
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