And he loved her because her arms were strong and round,
and because she wore the great dog-collar around her trim, firm-
corseted waist, and because there emanated from her with every
movement a barely perceptible, delicious, feminine odor, that was
in part perfume, but mostly a subtle, vague aroma, charming beyond
words, that came from her mouth, her hair, her neck, her arms, her
whole sweet personality. And he loved her because she was
herself, because she was Blix, because of that strange, sweet
influence that was disengaged from her in those quiet moments when
she seemed so close to him, when some unnamed, mysterious sixth
sense in him stirred and woke and told him of her goodness, of her
clean purity and womanliness; and that certain, vague tenderness
in him went out toward her, a tenderness not for her only, but for
all the good things of the world; and he felt his nobler side
rousing up and the awakening of the desire to be his better self.
Covertly he looked at her, as she sat near him, her yellow hair
rolling and blowing back from her forehead, her hands clasped over
her knee, looking out over the ocean, thoughtful, her eyes wide.
She had told him she did not love him. Condy remembered that
perfectly well. She was sincere in the matter; she did not love
him. That subject had been once and for all banished from their
intercourse. And it was because of that very reason that their
companionship of the last three or four months had been so
charming.
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