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312 She kissed his lips hungrily.

"The way to know whether you love me is to take me," she said. "I happen to be the woman in a million who understands that you, of your own free will, would never take me.

"I know how to love. See …" Her hand, insinuatingly, gently, caressed him.

"Don't …" he said.

And yet … and yet … her words, pouring forth, beneficent rain upon his parched mind, nourished a thought.

"This is better," he told her.

"I knew it! I knew it!" she cried triumphantly. "I knew it!"

Her body, lithe, quick, close to his, was hot, penetrating wool and silk, the heat, animal heat, quickened the center of him. Faintly roused, the body flashed its message. She could feel him stirring against her.

"I love you," she said. "Say you love me."

For reply, he kissed her.

"I call my apartment Spring in Paris. You've never been in Paris?"

He shook his head.

"Like it?"

"It's pretty."

"It's beautiful, big boy," she said. Cream and green, the rooms suggested spring. Ivy hung from ivory wall boxes. A balcony carried out the detail. Deep chairs, an ivory grate, the piano long and white against the wall.

She had succeeded in bringing a rare sensation of peace to him. Effects of the liquor were being dissipated. His friend, the woman, was curing him again.