He took her hand in his, raising it closer, and gently touched the maltreated skin. His eyes squeezed shut in ecstasy; he let out a sigh. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. He read but little, and that chiefly healthy light fiction with chromatic titles, The Red Sword, The Black Helmet, The Purple Robe, also in order “to distract his mind. She was taken dreadfully ill on the road, with spasms and short breath, and swoonings,—worse than ever she was before. Miss Mary to the life. Besides," she added, blushing yet more deeply, "it isn't a proper one to talk upon. I love some one else. CHAPTER XXVI Spurlock went out on his toes, careful lest the bamboo curtain rattle behind him. On the contrary. Wood, softening her asperity. Like stealing. They seldom arrive on the beach. “That,” she answered, “is far easier to believe.
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