“Robin!” she said.
“You don’t trust me,” he repeated.
He took her hand. His was hot.
“Robin—I’m a coward,” she said.
Her voice quivered.
“Oh, my dearest!” he exclaimed, melted in a moment.
He took her other hand, and she felt his hands throbbing. His clasp was so ardent that it startled her into forgetting everything for one instant, everything that except these clasping hands loved her hands, loved her. That instant was exquisitely sweet to her. There was a stinging sweetness in it, a mystery of sweetness, as if their four hands were four souls longing to be lost in one another.
“Now you’ll trust me,” he said.
She released her hands and immediately her terror of doubt returned.
“Let us go into the garden,” she answered.