She crawled into her small bed, dizzy with the thoughts of him, of kissing him. He opened his eyes, protestingly, and beheld the realization of his dream. Hers was beauty on a large scale no doubt; but it was beauty, nevertheless: and the carpenter thought her eyes as bright, her complexion as blooming, and her figure (if a little more buxom) quite as captivating as when he led her to the altar some twenty years ago. The joy that filled her veins with throbbing fire urged her to rise and go swinging and whirling and dipping. ‘It is imbecile that you are. But she made a pretence of struggling a little, for it would be out of character for her not to do so and she did not want to arouse his suspicions. You’ve got me.
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