Gosse backed, not even attempting to parry so unorthodox a use of the foil. Nothing to do; nothing for the hands, the mind, the heart. Bodies! Bodies! Horrible things! We are souls. I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly. I have been dreaming of your body and you night after night. I am a physician first, which gives the man in me a secondary part. Only he hated the words he uttered, hated the blunt honesty which forced them from his lips. He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience.
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