sure that you gave your mother the greatest happiness. The other. well, I'm a woman and I know . . . was easy to bear, just because she was bearing it for you. I've never been a mother, Gareth, but instinctively I know how she must have felt. I would do that for you. I would . . .
The boy began to weep softly. Laying her hand on his head, the Countess caressed his hair. Silently, with great delicacy, she stroked; then, very slowly, very carefully, she leaned nearer to him, rubbing her cheek tenderly against his, the tendrils of her hair brushing his face. This slight contact inflamed her. Now, with one palm still back of his head, with the other she grasped his hand, no longer limp, and slowly, softly, she gradually shifted her position until her lips met his. He did not move, nor did he respond. For a second or two she remained poised; then, swiftly, bending forward still further, she kissed him passionately, an embrace which he returned.
At last, she ceased, drawing back her head a little way. Her cheeks were flushed, her hands trembling, her breasts rising and falling. Seizing the boy's hands in hers, she turned him about until he faced her.
Gareth, she whispered, I love you.
I love you, too, he replied.
Do you understand? she went on, almost as if she were explaining something to a child. I love you . . . that way.
