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 at the idea of it and escaped him only to recognize, instantly, that she had whetted him by this flight and had drawn him on.

Not at once, for it was his way to tantalize, he followed to the door and looked in at her, whereupon she gasped and dropped into her chair, turned from him and began typing; but she wrote nothing coherent. This he observed, as he stepped to her and, with his hand upon her, read over her shoulder.

"Practicing Russian—or Chinese?" he twitted her, squeezing her.

She slipped from under his grasp, which brought from him, "How long have you been feeling this way about me?"

"How long?"

"Been hiding it, have you? Or did it just break through to you?"

"What break through?"

"Me," he patted her, "to you."

"I don't know," she said, with scarcely breath for it.

"I don't care," he said, and both his hands were on her.

She moved but he held her and she did not struggle. The sensation in her paralyzed her. Let him; let him! Let him a little and see what you can do with him! You'll not have to do like Di. Allow him this and then think; don't think or feel now; let him do it.

He stooped to her, slipped his arms down her, held her to him and kissed her; held his lips on hers, pressing hers.

At last he let her go—she had done it. Dazedly, dully, almost without feeling she gazed at him. Aroused, flushed he was; his sallow cheeks were aglow.