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ripe hops, and the freshness of young grass. Her lips were
soft and full against his, and her lovely, strong body was
firm within his arms.
‘Milk and honey,’ he said. ‘You’re like milk and honey.’
He made her close her eyes and kissed her eyelids, first
one and then the other. Her arm, strong and muscular, was
bare to the elbow; he passed his hand over it and wondered
at its beauty; it gleamed in the darkness; she had the skin
that Rubens painted, astonishingly fair and transparent,
and on one side were little golden hairs. It was the arm of a
Saxon goddess; but no immortal had that exquisite, homely
naturalness; and Philip thought of a cottage garden with
the dear flowers which bloom in all men’s hearts, of the hol-
lyhock and the red and white rose which is called York and
Lancaster, and of love—in-a-mist and Sweet William, and
honeysuckle, larkspur, and London Pride.
‘How can you care for me?’ he said. ‘I’m insignificant and
crippled and ordinary and ugly.’
She took his face in both her hands and kissed his lips.
‘You’re an old silly, that’s what you are,’ she said.