"I'm wishin' for it," says she.
"But," I protested, "is you sure 'tis right?"
"'Tis quite right," she answered. "God understands."
"I'd be glad," says I.
"You may kiss me, then."
I kissed her. 'Tis a thing I regret: 'twas a kiss so lacking in
earnest protraction--so without warmth and vigor. 'Twas the merest
brushing of her cheek. I wish I had kissed her, like a man, in the
fulness of desire I felt; but I was bound, in the last light of that
day, to John Cather, in knightly honor.
"'Twas very nice," says she. "I wisht you'd do it again."