. . ’ ‘I’m that sorry, miss,’ Kimble said glumly. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment. “I am not dependent upon any one. Only one thing emerged with any reasonable clarity in her mind at once, and that was that unless she was saved from drowning by an unmarried man, in which case the ceremony is unavoidable, or totally destitute of under-clothing, and so driven to get a trousseau, in which hardship a trousseau would certainly be “ripping,” marriage was an experience to be strenuously evaded. She then opened Lucy’s meager closet and plucked out a pair of heeled boots usually reserved for weddings and funerals. Delight surged through her as her breasts, shoulders, and belly touched his naked flesh all at once.
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