I cannot possibly allow you to hold
my hand."
His head swam for a moment. She was very alluring with her pale face
set in its clouds of golden hair, her faintly wrinkled forehead, her
bewitchingly regretful smile--regretful, yet in a sense provocative.
"I am in love with you," he declared.
"Naturally," she replied. "The question is--" She paused and looked
intently at the tip of her slipper. It was very small and very pointed
and it was quite impossible to ignore the fact that she had a remarkably
pretty foot and that she wore white silk stockings. Burton had never
known any one before who wore white silk stockings.
"I am very much in love with you," he repeated. "I cannot help it. It
is not my fault--that is to say, it is as much your fault as it is
mine."
The corners of her mouth twitched.
"Is it? Well, what are you going to do about it?"
"I am going to take you down to the orchard, through the little gate,
and across the plank into the hayfield," he announced, boldly. "I am
going to sit with you under the oak tree, where we can just catch the
view of the moor through the dip in the hills. We will lean back and
watch the clouds--those little white, fleecy, broken-off pieces--and I
will tell you fairy stories.
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