"Tea," said Martin,
and he vanished. "It's all right," he said, drawing her to a
creaking wicker armchair near the empty fireplace. "No one will
interrupt us. They know me here. I ordered the room yesterday." Tea
came, but she could not eat anything. In some strange way that
moment in the theatre when he had pressed her hand had altered
everything. She recognised in herself a new Maggie; she was excited
with a thick burning excitement, she was almost sleepy with the
strain of it and her cheeks were hot, but her throat icy cold. When
she told him that she wasn't hungry, he said, "I'm not either." Then
he added, not looking at her, "That fellow won't be back for an
hour." He came and stood by her looking down on her. He bent forward
over the chair and put his hands under her chin and pressed her face
up towards his. But he did not kiss her. Then he took her hands and
pulled her gently out of the chair, sat down on it himself, then,
still very tenderly, put his arms round her and drew her down to
him. She lay back against him, her cheek against his, his arms tight
around her. He whispered to her again and again, "Darling .
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