“Now,” he said, “no one can blunder in upon us. Apparently he had projected beyond his table some hypnotic thought, for it had held him all through the dining hour. He made it impossible not to respond, his arms tightening deliciously around hers. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. She answered weakly, “I’m fine, John.
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