Her tone was icy. It was no marriage at all. “Glaciers?” she said. He did not look up, so he did not know that in her other hand she held a glass of wine. Beneath that tree let us lie. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone.
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