"Well, then, sit down. Sit down on this couch."
I sat down on the couch. Unwillingly? Yes. I was at that stage
when all her words, all her gestures, all her silences were a heavy
trial to me, put a stress on my resolution, on that fidelity to
myself and to her which lay like a leaden weight on my untried
heart. But I didn't sit down very far away from her, though that
soft and billowy couch was big enough, God knows! No, not very far
from her. Self-control, dignity, hopelessness itself, have their
limits. The halo of her tawny hair stirred as I let myself drop by
her side. Whereupon she flung one arm round my neck, leaned her
temple against my shoulder and began to sob; but that I could only
guess from her slight, convulsive movements because in our relative
positions I could only see the mass of her tawny hair brushed back,
yet with a halo of escaped hair which as I bent my head over her
tickled my lips, my cheek, in a maddening manner.
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