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FLAMING YOUTH
Behind him, in the gloom, sounded the shaken softness of her breathing.
He bent his head upon his arms.
“Oh, God!” he said. “Pat. Little Pat!* She came to him then, spread her gracious arms wide, flung the gleaming fog of her hair to the wind, enclasped him, claimed his soul with her lips. “I’m not sorry,” she panted. “Pm not! Pm not! I'm glad!”
