The slack of her ridinghabit and full under-petticoats was gathered into her left hand, and her booted ankles were visible as she held the skirts well out of her way. ‘Gérard!’ ‘Yes, it’s I,’ he said, and grinned. It was the beginning of June. After all, life had still its pulsations. “Yes,” she said, “that is what we ought to do. The curve of his shoulders, the very angle of his feet, expressed relief at her apparent obedience.
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