Harry Occleve, now. She knew him slightly. She despised him. Tame cat!
She hated him. Beast! But he smelt nice. Yes, he did. Of peat and soap
and tobacco and whisky and tweed—always so—of tweed, even when in
evening dress. Odd!
She met him in her uncle’s house. Poor calf! How she despised him—sick
fool! She had to pass him. Hateful! She trembled. Her knees shook. She
hated him so. Then—that smell! Peat, soap, tobacco, whisky and—tweed. He
in evening dress.
She caught her breath. He caught her in his arms. Her face upturned—the
thing’s too poignant for the words one has! Really. But one does one’s
best. Start over, then——
She was caught in his arms, terribly enfolding her—around and around and
around he wrapped those long, long strong arms—Phew! One gets so excited
writing it.
She was incredibly swooning through incredible spaces, in incredible
seas, through incredible blackness, in incredible tweedy smells——
Then they went in to dinner.