A young man —almost a boy, slight, dark, and with his brother’s deep grey eyes—came across the room to her. Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold. “Stay where you are for a moment,” she directed. But there is need for the proof that I am me, and that is what I look for. She had to make sure, for the peace of her mind, that this was really the man. “What has he done? “What shall I do. It might have been the moon, or the phosphorescence of the broken water, or it might have been his abysmal loneliness; but suddenly he caught her face in his hands and kissed her on the mouth. Still it was possible, and the difficulty was only a fresh incitement.
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