Loving was self-forgetfulness, pure delighting in another human being. You might trust me with the Chevalier himself,—I'd never betray him. “I will tell you when to stop. Ennison?” “He spoke to me, thinking that I was you,” Anna answered. She opened her suitcase—new and smelling strongly of leather—and took out of it a book, dogeared and precariously held together, bound in faded blue cloth and bearing the inscription: The Universal Handbook. She felt the softest touch caress her cheek, and a wave of tenderness engulfed Melusine. Nor can we. “You ought at once—you ought at once to have told her that.
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