He removed his cockaded hat, putting it down between them as he sat at the other end, placing himself at an angle and, crossing his legs, leaned back at his ease, his eyes fixed on her face. ‘And me?’ ‘Oh, you’re mad because you wish to blow off my head. Do you want me, too?” “Yes,” she whispered foolishly, in the throes of rapture. She met his eyes for a moment, and could not interpret their expression. I thought I’d see Paris, do the thing—like a toff. I bent over him. But she doesn’t and won’t divorce me.
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