'Do you love me?' she whispered, in wild seriousness.
'Yes,' he answered, laughing.
Suddenly she lifted her mouth to be kissed. Her lips were taut and
quivering and strenuous, his were soft, deep and delicate. He waited a
few moments in the kiss. Then a shade of sadness went over his soul.
'Your mouth is so hard,' he said, in faint reproach.
'And yours is so soft and nice,' she said gladly.
'But why do you always grip your lips?' he asked, regretful.
'Never mind,' she said swiftly. 'It is my way.'
She knew he loved her; she was sure of him. Yet she could not let go a
certain hold over herself, she could not bear him to question her. She
gave herself up in delight to being loved by him. She knew that, in
spite of his joy when she abandoned herself, he was a little bit
saddened too. She could give herself up to his activity. But she could
not be herself, she DARED not come forth quite nakedly to his
nakedness, abandoning all adjustment, lapsing in pure faith with him.
She abandoned herself to HIM, or she took hold of him and gathered her
joy of him.
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