'Our days are what we make them.' How hot I feel!" With one swift movement of her supple loins she turned over, and her bare arms opened to embrace the air as though it had been a cool, subtle body.
"It seems a hundred years since Robert went away.

It was cruel of him to leave me alone.

I am sick with longing for him." And curled up in her bed, she recollected intently the hours when they held each other in a close embrace.

She called him: "My pussy-cat! Little wolf!" And immediately the same train of thoughts began once more their fatiguing procession through her mind.
"Our days are what we make them.

Our days are what we make them.