She could not go to him when it was apparent that he needed her beyond all other instances! What had caused this agony did not matter—then. She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. He had a quick, shrewd, merry eye, and a look in which duplicity was agreeably veiled by good humour. His shirt also was unbuttoned, and disclosed a neck like that of an ox, and a chest which might have served as a model for a Hercules. The brilliant sunshine poured through the window, effecting an oblong block of mote-swimming light. She moved her hand off of his knee, deliberately slow. You know not what a wretched guilty thing I am. But I'll tell you about him some other time. I understand nothing of what you say.
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