He drove her home that night, kissing her again and again at stoplights. It would not have been for her an anomaly to read a love story in which there were no kisses. ‘Why?’ Melusine eyed him dubiously. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. He meant to take her out of this room, perhaps even out of the house. “I confess it. "Let me see the earth thrown over her," implored Jack; "and take me where you please. ‘You ain’t got nothing on me.
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