Loving was self-forgetfulness, pure delighting in another human being. She addresses you as the Flower of the Lotus, as the Resplendent Moonbeam. He was almost frightening in silhouette, his hair uncontrollable under the best of circumstances, but that changed when you saw his face. Where her husband saw only two youngsters in the mating mood, she felt that tragedy in some phase lurked in this room—if only in the loneliness of these two, without kith or kin apparently, thousands of miles from home.
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