She withdrew her head with a little moan, and resumed her flight. ‘Dieu du ciel, for what do you take me?’ ‘I don’t know,’ he threw at her. He had meant to be master of his fate that evening and it had escaped him altogether. She made a few protests, a few excuses for her action in accepting him, a few lame explanations, but he did not heed them or care for them. I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly.
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