Margaret Mitchell

Melanie might have given him his new coat but this sash was her gift, her own secret guerdon for him to wear into battle, something that would make him remember her every time he looked at it.

What Peter said was true but she hated to hear it from a negro and a family negro, too. Not to stand high in the opinion of one's servants was a humiliating a thing as could happen to a Southerner.

His lips traveled to her wrist and she knew he must fell the leap of her pulse as her heart quickened and she tried to draw back her hand. She had not bargained on this—this treacherous warm tide of feeling that made her want to run her hands through his hair, to feel his lips upon her mouth.

It was the same conflicting emotion that made her desire to appear a delicate and high-bred lady with boys and to be, as well, a hoyden who was not above a few kisses.