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 way. He was at her feet and the hem of her dress again against his lips. "Don't you understand, can't I make you understand? I adore you, I worship you. I want nothing from you except that you let me tell you so sometimes."

"It is so much nicer when you write it," she murmured.

"Don't." She cajoled him.

"I can't take it lightly," he burst out. "Pity me, forgive me, but don't laugh at me."

"I am not laughing."

"I know. You are an angel of sweetness, goodness. Margaret, let me love you!"

I was back again in bed, very drowsy and comfortable, wondering how I had got there, what had happened, what time it was. I took a drink of lemonade and thought what a bad night I was having. I remembered my dream; it had been very vivid, and I was sorry for Gabriel Stanton and tried to remember what had become of him, when I had heard of or seen him last; it must have been a long time ago. Margaret was a minx. If ever I wrote about them it would be to tell the truth, to analyse and expose the spirit and soul of a woman flirt. And again when I lay down I thought of what the critics would say of this fine and intimate study, this human document that I was to give the world. Phrases came to me, vivid lightning touches &hellip;