Her full, soft lips were
slightly parted; her heavily-fringed eyelids closed; her deep
brown hair, which had escaped bounds a little, drooping over her
ear. His fingers suddenly clasped hers tightly.
"Beatrice!" he whispered.
She sat up with a start, her eyes questioning his, the breath
coming quickly through her parted lips.
"Once you asked me to kiss you, Beatrice," he said. "To-night
-- I am going to."
She made no attempt to repulse him. He took her in his arms and
kissed her. Even in that moment he knew that he had made a
mistake. Nevertheless, he kissed her again and again, crushing
her lips against his.
"Please let me go, Leonard," she begged at last.
He obeyed at once. He understood quite well that some strange
thing had happened. It seemed to him during those next few
minutes that everything which had passed that night was a dream,
that this vivid picture of a life more intense, making larger
demands upon the senses than anything he had yet experienced, was
a mirage, a thing which would live only in his memory, a life in
which he could never take any part. He had blundered; he had
come into a new world and he had blundered. A sense of guilt was
upon him. He had a sudden wild desire to cry out that it was
Elizabeth whom he had kissed. Beatrice was sitting upright in
her place, her head turned a little away from him. He felt that
she was expecting him to speak--that there were inevitable words
which he should say.
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