“So far you’ve got me and I you. Even WITH the Censorship of Plays there’s hardly a decent thing to which a man can take his wife and daughters, a creeping taint of suggestion everywhere. That shining slope of snow, and how we talked of death! We might have died! Even when we are old, when we are rich as we may be, we won’t forget the tune when we cared nothing for anything but the joy of one another, when we risked everything for one another, when all the wrappings and coverings seemed to have fallen from life and left it light and fire. It's infernally provoking. And, lastly, there's Mr. There!" Out of the dark unruffled sapphire of the lagoon came vertical flashes of burning silver, singly and in groups. There was more shouting. There was one verse that haunted and mocked her. “He means nothing!” She whispered loudly. We were two people with a craving. What he wanted desperately was to be alone. Or had she, like himself, been held up until the fellow returned to town? He waited, his ready humour anticipating her likely reaction. It was so easy to forget the imminent threats of being discovered during times of peace.
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