Too late she realised that Emile was not trying to escape. “I ought to look up Gwen,” she said. Very slowly, very fearfully, she turned her head. He had a handsome, jolly-looking face; stood six feet two in his stockings; and measured more than a cloth-yard shaft across the shoulders—athletic proportions derived from his father the dragoon. “Come, we must go home and have some luncheon. What she did not know, and what she was never to know, was that the divine fire was hers.
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