Her
miserable face--whatever her principles did for her they didn't make
her happy--her little miserable face, twisted with effort to be
patient, had been at last more than he could bear to see, and he had
kept away as much as he could. She never ought to have been the
daughter of a low-church rector--narrow devil; she was quite unfitted
to stand up against such an upbringing.
What had happened, why she was here, why she was his Rose again,
passed his comprehension; and meanwhile, and until such time as he
understood, he still could kiss. In fact he could not stop kissing;
and it was he now who began to murmur, to say love things in her ear
under the hair that smelt so sweet and tickled him just as he
remembered it used to tickle him.
And as he held her close to his heart and her arms were soft
round his neck, he felt stealing over him a delicious sense of--at
first he didn't know what it was, this delicate, pervading warmth, and
then he recognized it as security. Yes; security. No need now to be
ashamed of his figure, and to make jokes about it so as to forestall
other people's and show he didn't mind it; no need now to be ashamed of
getting hot going up hills, or to torment himself with pictures of how
he probably appeared to beautiful young women--how middle-aged, how
absurd in his inability to keep away from them.
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