'
For some moments she sat and gazed at him awfully, her lips parted.
'Do you love me then?' she asked.
He only stood and stared at her, fascinated. His soul seemed to melt.
She shuffled forward on her knees, and put her arms round him, round his
legs, as he stood there, pressing her breasts against his knees and
thighs, clutching him with strange, convulsive certainty, pressing his
thighs against her, drawing him to her face, her throat, as she looked up
at him with flaring, humble eyes, of transfiguration, triumphant in first
possession.
'You love me,' she murmured, in strange transport, yearning and
triumphant and confident. 'You love me. I know you love me, I know.'
And she was passionately kissing his knees, through the wet clothing,
passionately and indiscriminately kissing his knees, his legs, as if
unaware of every thing.
He looked down at the tangled wet hair, the wild, bare, animal shoulders.
He was amazed, bewildered, and afraid. He had never thought of loving
her. He had never wanted to love her. When he rescued her and restored
her, he was a doctor, and she was a patient. He had had no single
personal thought of her. Nay, this introduction of the personal element
was very distasteful to him, a violation of his professional honour. It
was horrible to have her there embracing his knees. It was horrible. He
revolted from it, violently. And yet--and yet--he had not the power to
break away.
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