Yet in some hidden corner was a vein of sentiment, of which for the first time in his later life he was now unexpectedly aware. "That is good. One could enter and leave by proa, but nothing with a keel could cross the coral gate. Beauty doesn’t mean, never has meant, anything—anything at all but you. His arms slipped around her waist as they were on the doorstep and he kissed her lips sweetly. But he wrote on. Small wonder she had learned to be self-reliant. "Forgive me—oh, forgive me!" "Forgive you—bless you!" she gasped.
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