‘What do you mean?’ Gerald grinned. ‘Do not think—’ he panted, ‘that I am finished—with you, mademoiselle. She would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear. We were going at a mad pace. For I still love her mother. I'll cable to-night, and in a few days we'll have some news. She kept her eyes closed. I don’t want to influence you unduly—But—They’re artistic people, Vee. Stir a foot, and I strike. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone.
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