Her name was Rhea. Sometimes a whole morning would pass without Spurlock uttering a word beyond the request for a drink of water. “My God! Ann Veronica,” he said, struggling to keep his hold upon her; “my God! Tell me—tell me now—tell me you love me!” His expression was as it were rapaciously furtive. He held her hand in his, cupped together like a pair of shells for the rest of the hour. He was not, in truth, much of a ladies’ man. "You tried to do something that was fine, and … and civilization would not let you. Silk. Were you born here, madame?’ ‘Mais non.
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