She looked at him again, with the same supplication of powerful love, and
that same transcendent, frightening light of triumph. In view of the
delicate flame which seemed to come from her face like a light, he was
powerless. And yet he had never intended to love her. He had never
intended. And something stubborn in him could not give way.
'You love me,' she repeated, in a murmur of deep, rhapsodic assurance.
'You love me.'
Her hands were drawing him, drawing him down to her. He was afraid, even
a little horrified. For he had, really, no intention of loving her. Yet
her hands were drawing him towards her. He put out his hand quickly to
steady himself, and grasped her bare shoulder. A flame seemed to burn the
hand that grasped her soft shoulder. He had no intention of loving her:
his whole will was against his yielding. It was horrible. And yet
wonderful was the touch of her shoulders, beautiful the shining of her
face. Was she perhaps mad? He had a horror of yielding to her. Yet
something in him ached also.
He had been staring away at the door, away from her. But his hand
remained on her shoulder. She had gone suddenly very still. He looked
down at her. Her eyes were now wide with fear, with doubt, the light was
dying from her face, a shadow of terrible greyness was returning. He
could not bear the touch of her eyes' question upon him, and the look of
death behind the question.
Pages:
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235