If only sometimes he would grow angry at her, impatient! But his tender courtesy was unfailing; and under this would be the abiding bitterness of having mistaken gratitude for love. “I wish you and I had drunk that love potion,” he said. We have seen pitted cheeks, which we would not exchange for dimples and a satin skin. An acute sense of living was in her veins, even the taste of her wine seemed magical.
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