But Miss Miniver was highly unsatisfactory. They sucked face and felt each other up, or something. The lamp was not yet lit, and in the dim light he bent forward as though trying to look into her averted face. He added, ‘Also others, but I don’t recall them. Not that he deliberately courted danger; it was rather the searcher, seeking analysis, the why and wherefore of this or that invading emotion. Love was joy, and joyous she was when alone. It began to rain, a cold sweat of precipitation that was more sickly than refreshing. It’s a pure joy of giving—giving to YOU.
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