"You are a gentle object," he satirized her, loosening
his hold.

She rose slowly and stood fingering her wrist.
The emotion died from her countenance. "You
see," she explained, "my body is all I have to take
me out of this," she motioned to the slumbering water,
the towering range, "and I can't afford to have it
spoiled. You wouldn't like me if I were lame or
crooked. Men don't. The religious squashes can
say all they like about the soul, but a woman's body
is the only really important thing to her. No one
bothers about your soul, but they judge your figure
across the street."

"Yours hasn't done you much good."

"It will," she returned somberly, "it must -- real
lace and wine and ease." She came very close to
him; he could feel the faint jarring of her heart, the
moisture of her breath. "And you could get them
for me. I would make you mad with sensation."

He kissed her again and again, crushing her to
him. She abandoned herself to his arms, but she
was as untouched, as impersonal, as a stuffed woman
of cool satin. In the end he voluntarily released
her.

"You wouldn't take fire from a pine knot," he
said unsteadily.

Her deft hands rearranged her hat. "Some day
a man will murder me," she replied in level tones;

[[210]]

p209 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p210w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p211

v?