"Are you tired?" he asked.
"Yes, and chilled, and miserable. I feel as if I had been
wound up to a certain pitch--too tight--and something inside of me
had snapped." She rested her head against the table upon her bare arm.
"You want to rest," he said, "and to be quiet. I'll go;
I'll leave you and let you rest."
"Yes," she replied.
He stood up beside her and smoothed her hair with his soft,
magnetic hand. His touch conveyed to her a certain physical
comfort. She could have fallen quietly asleep there if he had
continued to pass his hand over her hair. He brushed the hair
upward from the nape of her neck.
"I hope you will feel better and happier in the morning," he
said. "You have tried to do too much in the past few days.
The dinner was the last straw; you might have dispensed with it."
"Yes," she admitted; "it was stupid."
"No, it was delightful; but it has worn you out." His hand had
strayed to her beautiful shoulders, and he could feel the response
of her flesh to his touch. He seated himself beside her and kissed
her lightly upon the shoulder.
"I thought you were going away," she said, in an uneven voice.
"I am, after I have said good night."
"Good night," she murmured.
He did not answer, except to continue to caress her. He did
not say good night until she had become supple to his gentle,
seductive entreaties.
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