It would not have been for her an anomaly to read a love story in which there were no kisses. To-night I locked up my flat at six o’clock. Behind the Avenue was a little hill, and an iron-fenced path went over the crest of this to a stile under an elm-tree, and forked there, with one branch going back into the Avenue again. “Odd!” she said. But she felt his lax figure become rigid. Loving was self-forgetfulness, pure delighting in another human being.
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