Old London Bridge. She felt the softest touch caress her cheek, and a wave of tenderness engulfed Melusine. He touched her breast as if he was testing the waters of a cold lake. She was tempted to touch him in the car as they drove to the empty house, but she refrained for fear of causing a car accident. Her hair once more was arranged with its old simplicity. Without a word or a gesture, the Wastrel turned and staggered forth, out of the orbit of these two, having been thrust into it for a single purpose already described. They don’t catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its—its outer aspects.
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