“Don’t,” he groaned. “For God’s sake, stop it. I can’t stand tears!”
“Then don’t look, damn you,” she whispered, stomping her foot.
He swore roughly, digging into his pocket for his freshly laundered linen handkerchief. He thrust it into her trembling hands, feeling as if someone had kicked him.
“You’ll make yourself sick. Stop it. You’re all right. A miss is as good as a mile, isn’t it?” he asked, his voice softer now, deeper. He touched her hair hesitantly. It was all coming back into focus, little by little. He frowned, because now he remembered something that panic had knocked out of his mind. She’d touched his face and whispered something, and she’d put her mouth against his to comfort him. What had she said…?
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