.. baffled, I pretended
to be calm.
As she rose for something or other, I sprang around the table and caught
her close to me once more, marvelling, at the same time, at my loss of
shyness, my new-found audacity. Again she snuggled in close to me, her
flesh like a warm, palpitating cushion.
"Flora, my darling ... help me!" I cried, half-sobbing.
"What do you mean?" laughing.
"I love you!"
"I know all _you_ want!"
"But I do love you ... see...."
And I prostrated myself, in a frenzy, at her feet.
"Say, you're the queerest kid I've ever known."
And she walked out of the room abruptly, while I rose to my feet and sat
in a chair, dejected. She came in again, a twinkle in her eye.
"Don't torture me, Flora!" I pleaded, "either send me away, or--"
"Stop pestering me ... let's talk ... read me some of that Tennyson you
gave me...." and I began reading aloud, for there was nothing else she
would for the moment, have me do....
* * * * *
"You're a poet," whimsically, "I want you to write some letters to me
because I know you must write beautiful."
"--if you will only let me love you!"
"Well, ain't I lettin' you love me?"
A perverse look came into her face, a thought, an idea that pleased
her--
"I've lots and lots of letters from men," she began, "men that have been
in love with me.
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