She savored the sweetness of his lips, all of his great youth and passion and longed for his innocence, his complete lack of the knowledge of terrible things. “The plain common-sense of the case,” he said, “is that we can’t possibly be lovers in the ordinary sense. ” “But Italy—” “Italy’s for a good girl,” he said, and laid his hand for a moment on her shoulder. She was obliged, as she explained continually to every one who cared to listen, to be so very particular. Wood, leaping from the bed.
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