"Is that you, Paul?" she murmured.
"Yes."
"I am glad. I seem to feel--what is it?"
"I don't know, Desiree. What do you mean?"
"Nothing--nothing. Oh. it feels so good--good--to have you hold
me like this."
"Yes?" I smiled.
"But, yes. Where is Harry?"
"Asleep. Are you hungry?"
"Yes--no. Not now. I don't know why. I want to talk. What has
happened?"
I told her of everything that had occurred since she had swooned;
she shuddered as memory returned, but forgot herself in my
attempt at a humorous description of Harry's valor as a hunter of
food.
"You don't need to turn up your nose," I retorted to her
expressive grimace; "you ate some of the stuff yourself."
There was a silence; then suddenly Desiree's voice came:
"Paul--" She hesitated and stopped.
"Yes."
"What do you think of me?"
"Do you want a lengthy review?" I smiled.
What a woman she was! Under those circumstances, and amid those
surroundings, she was still Desiree Le Mire.
"Don't laugh at me," she said. "I want to know. I have never
spoken of what I did that time in the cavern--you know what I
mean. I am sorry now. I suppose you despise me.
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