“You little wretch!” she exclaimed weakly. The chair had extension arms over which a man might comfortably dangle his legs. ‘Idiot!’ ‘Enough, now! Softly, you little termagant,’ he ordered, seizing her wrists to hold her off. “Turned out to be an impostor, too. Then as she lay very still, with her hands clinched and her black hair tumbled about her face, he came still closer and softly kissed the nape of her neck. Manning leaned forward on the table, talking discursively on the probable brilliance of their married life.
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