1 And she curled on his breast, perfect.
2 He still lay with his hand on her breast.
3 He laughed, and the flowers shook from his breast.
4 He took his hand away from her breast, not touching her.
5 And she pushed a bit of forget-me-not in the dark hair of his breast.
6 Then, with dim, compassionate fingers, she stroked his head, that lay on her breast.
7 And suddenly he held her fast against his breast again, with the old connecting passion.
8 He was coming apart; but in her breast she felt she could not bear him to leave her uncovered.
9 And her terror subsided in her breast, her breast dared to be gone in peace, she held nothing.
10 From her breast flowed the answering, immense yearning over him; she must give him anything, anything.
11 At the same time, the infant crying in the night was crying out of his breast to her, in a way that affected her very womb.
12 The keeper's face flickered with a little grimace, and with his hand he softly brushed her breast upwards, from underneath.
13 She had a devil of self-will in her breast that could have fought the full soft heaving adoration of her womb and crushed it.
14 She sat on his thighs, her head against his breast, and her ivory-gleaming legs loosely apart, the fire glowing unequally upon them.
15 Yet the passion licked round her, consuming, and when the sensual flame of it pressed through her bowels and breast, she really thought she was dying: yet a poignant, marvellous death.
16 The physical desire he did not satisfy in her; he was always come and finished so quickly, then shrinking down on her breast, and recovering somewhat his effrontery while she lay dazed, disappointed, lost.
17 Even the tightness of his arms round her, even the intense movement of his body, and the springing of his seed in her, was a kind of sleep, from which she did not begin to rouse till he had finished and lay softly panting against her breast.
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