To walk beside him, dressed akin to him, rucksacked and companionable, was bliss in itself; each step she took was like stepping once more across the threshold of heaven. She wanted to live. I know all about it. You're in luck to-night, widow. "He's dead," exclaimed Austin. “I wanted to make love to you. He flung Ruth aside, careless whether she fell or not. She was leaning over him and he smelled her like he had never smelled anyone before. I begin to understand Jane Austen and chintz covers and decency and refinement and all the rest of it. I'm burning up.
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