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 The variety of her seemed inexhaustible. Her moods were as variable as the light clouds which cross a blue sky, yet like the sky itself she was steadfast behind it all.

The world was all theirs. Rarely were those journeyings interrupted by the advent of strangers. Sometimes a wanderer espied the lovers and passed on; occasionally in the dis- tance they traced the dusty course of a flying motor. Hour after hour she would lie in his arms on the slope of some green hill, or amid the thick sweet-smelling grasses, unseen ex- cept by the sun, unheeded except by the wind. And her eyes told him always the same sweet tale, and her lips were sweeter than clover. She seemed insatiable of love. The tale ten times told lost nothing in the retelling; ten times again was it retold and listened to as eagerly.

“Keep on telling me,” she would say, “and never cease your kissings. I think all the joy and wisdom of the world is on your lips. And hold me close, so close that I can scarcely breathe. It is madness to feel you almost press the life out of me. I should like to die thus, your arms about me, your lips to mine, your