"I don't pretend to understand your moods, Cecil."
"You shall share this present one."
"I think not."
"I think—'yes.'"
He flung his arm suddenly around her, drawing her close.
"Look here," he said; and, taking his hand from the pages of the book where it had been resting, he lifted the volume toward her. As her eyes lowered themselves to the book, his fastened upon her face. The next moment she had sprung up, thrusting him from her. The book lay sprawled on the floor between them. It was a very rare volume of morbidly licentious engravings, repulsive, abominable.
She was livid with scorn and loathing. Her breast heaved. She felt the scalding of furious tears against her eyelids. She could not speak; and with that bracelet of his big, soft fingers about her wrist, he held her, laughing silently, convulsed with laughter.
But in Sophy there sprang to life something that was as dangerous as anything in him.
She said, whispering: "You'll be sorry all your life if you don't take your hand from me."
The light eyes wavered. Then he flung back her hand.