"Ah, Joconde," she sighed, "so wise and yet so foolish,
know'st thou not thy dear, scarred face is the face of him I love, for love
hath touched my eyes and I do see thee at last as thou truly art, a man
great of soul, tender and strong-hearted. So art thou a man, the only man,
my man. Oh, that I might but prove my love for thee, prove it to thee and
before all men, no matter how, so I might but banish thy cruel doubts for
ever. But now, for thy dear, scarred face--"
Her soft, round arms were about his neck; and drawing him to her lips she
kissed him, his scarred brow and cheek, his eyes, his lips grown dumb with
wondering joy. Thus, lip to lip and with arms entwined, knelt they beside
that slow-moving stream that whispered softly beneath the bank and gurgled
roguish laughter in the shallows.
A dog barked faintly in the distance, a frog croaked hoarsely from the
neighbouring sedge, but lost in the wonder of their love, they heeded only
the beating of their hearts.
"A-billing and a-cooing! A-cooing and a-billing, as I'm a tanner true!"
exclaimed a hoarse voice.
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