I didn’t understand before that letter. It was a moment or two before Gerald realised that he could feel the fluttering of her pulse beneath the light touch he had on her wrist, and that her fingers were trembling in his. I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly. She seemed to have recovered herself as he returned, but rose as if she would go back to the saloon. At table he carved in a gloomy but resolute manner. .
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