A hazy face appeared through the fog of sleep, pale and thin and looming. “Been sitting on the doorstep almost for two hours. ‘Danged if I ever hear the like,’ he repeated blankly. It might have been the moon, or the phosphorescence of the broken water, or it might have been his abysmal loneliness; but suddenly he caught her face in his hands and kissed her on the mouth. It hadn’t even been called Kentucky back then when the Shawnee still hunted deer over mossy hills and the smoke from their fires could still inspire terror. “I have loved you,” he was saying, “ever since you sat on that gate and talked. ” Her first upward glance was one of terrified apprehension.
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