"You are my prisoner. She threw out a hand to stop herself from cannoning into them and, losing balance, tripped over her own petticoats and fell to the carpeted floor, her hat falling off as she did so. She became aware of the modelling of his ear, of the muscles of his neck and the textures of the hair that came off his brow, the soft minute curve of eyelid that she could just see beyond his brow; she perceived all these familiar objects as though they were acutely beautiful things. Luckily, they were not easily discomposed. “Excellent!” he exclaimed. “Now,” he said, “no one can blunder in upon us. ‘As to Gérard, I do not know why he does this.
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