She was clad in fresh linen, but still wore the riding-habit she had appropriated, having sponged out the spots of blood late last night and left it to dry in the kitchens. Why had he kissed her? What had led him into that? Neither love nor passion— utter blankness so far as reducing the act to terms. He wondered why she thought love made people happy, and began to talk of the smilax and pinks that adorned the table.
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