And now her mind was so full of the thought that she was in love—in love!—that marvellous state! that I really believe she had some dim idea of talking to him about it. At last she was roused. He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. It was the gratification of an immense necessity. It would be useless to tell her to go back, even heartless; and yet he could not advise her to go on, blindly, not knowing whether her aunt was dead or alive. No, this was imbecile. The fellow Kimble, to whom Gerald was indebted, was gaping. She wrapped her legs about his hips as he raised himself upon straight arms, piercing her with his gaze as he thrust into her.
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