han mere woman. She was--well, she was
Genevieve, a being of a class by herself, nothing less than a miracle of
creation.

And for her, in turn, there was in him but little less of illusion. Her
judgment of him in minor things might be critical (while his judgment of
her was sheer worship, and had in it nothing critical at all); but in her
judgment of him as a whole she forgot the sum of the parts, and knew him
only as a creature of wonder, who gave meaning to life, and for whom she
could die as willingly as she could live. She often beguiled her waking
dreams of him with fancied situations, wherein, dying for him, she at
last adequately expressed the love she felt for him, and which, living,
she knew she could never fully express.

Their love was all fire and dew. The physical scarcely entered into it,
for such seemed profanation. The ultimate physical facts of their
relation were something which they never considered. Yet the immediate
physical facts they knew, the immediate yearnings and raptures of the
flesh--the touch of finger tips on hand or arm, the momentary pressure of
a hand-clasp, the rare lip-caress of a kiss, the tingling thrill of her
hair upon his cheek, of her hand lightly thrusting back the locks from
above his eyes. All this they knew, but also, and they knew not why,
there seemed a hint of sin about these caresses and sweet bodily
contacts.

There were times when she felt impelled to throw her arms around him in a
very abandonment of love, but always some sanctity restrained her. At
such moments she was distinctly and unpleasantly aware of some unguessed
sin that lurked within her. It was wrong, undoubtedly wrong, that she
should wish to caress her lover in so unbecoming a fashion. No
self-respecting girl could dream of doing such a thing. It was
unwomanly. Besides, if she had done it, what would he have thought of
it? And while she contemplated so horrible a catastrophe, she seemed to
shrivel and wilt in a furnace of secret shame.

Nor did Joe escape the prick of curious desires, chiefest among which,
perhaps, was the desire to hurt Genevieve. When, after long and tortuous
degrees, he had achieved the bliss of putting his arm round her waist, he
felt spasmodic impulses to make the embrace crushing, till she should cry
out with the hurt. It was not his nature to wish to hurt any living
thing. Even in the ring, to hurt was never the intention of any blow he
struck. In such case he