She was almost tempted to tell him, if only to see the cracks of surprise and incredulity break the immobility of his yellow countenance. Her voice recalled him. But if he speaks—I fear what he may tell. ’ ‘Gérard,’ she said, giving the French version with a soft “g” and not quite managing the “l”. Perhaps you’ve heard—?’ Well, you know, he had. I want to give myself to you. I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly.
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