Ann Veronica looked down at her fingers on the claret-colored table-cloth. Papillon would have broken him down; anything tender would have sapped his will; and like as not he would have left the stool and rushed into the night. “Afterwards,” she said, “I should be perfectly content to have everything done for me. “I believe,” he said slowly, “that I shall do best to throw myself upon your consideration and tell you the truth. “It’s odd—I have no doubt in my mind that what we are doing is wrong,” he said. It was in another world from that in which men will die for a kiss, and touching hands lights fires that burn up lives—the world of romance, the world of passionately beautiful things.
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