Whilst the greatest effort has been made to ensure the quality of this text, due to the historical nature of this content, in some rare cases there may be minor issues with legibility. Philippe with all the warmth of a first passion, with all the folly of her inexperience. She was running away like a school-girl, voluntarily, and without weighing the terrible consequences of her flight. And Philippe was carrying her Off, intoxicated with his victory and quivering at feeling her moving and panting at his side. At first he thought of hastening to Marseilles to procure a vehicle. But he was afraid to leave her alone on the high road, and he preferred to go with her on foot as far as his mother’s country-house, which was situated quite a league away, in the Saint Just quarter. Philippe had to leave his horse behind, and the two lovers started off bravely together. They passed through meadows, ploughed fields and pine woods, taking short cuts and walking very quickly. It was about four o’clock. The sun, clear and scorching, cast before them broad Sheets of light. And they hastened along in the warm air, urged on by the madness which was eating into their hearts. As they passed by, the labourers raised their heads and watched their flight with amazement. It did not take them an hour to reach the home of Philippe’s mother. Blanche, quite tired out, seated herself on a stone bench beside the door, whilst the young man went to see if the coast was Clear. He then returned and conducted her to his room. He had begged Ayasse, a gardener whom his mother was employing that day, to fetch a vehicle from Marseilles. Both were still a prey to the excitement of their flight. Whilst awaiting the vehicle, they remained silent and anxious. Philippe, having led Blanche to a little chair, knelt at her feet and gazed lingeringly at her, seeking to reassure her by gently kissing the hand She yielded to him.
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