I thought he was going to shake me.
But no.
In quicker time than it can be told, his hands had flown from my shoulders to the pink strings of my sun-bonnet; he’d untied them and tossed the bonnet on to the nearest hassock of a gorse-bush. He put both brown hands under my chin and turned my face up to his. Before I could so much as gasp, he swooped down and kissed me, muttering, “But what could you call this—and this—and this?” Three times—greedily—on the mouth.
For a second I had to clutch at his shoulder to steady myself; for sea and cliff and gorse seemed wheeling round me in swirls of blue and green and gold.
Then I wrenched myself away and faced him—without seeing too distinctly what was in front of my eyes.
“Don’t say anything to me,” I heard myself tell him, in a voice that sounded unnaturally quiet and calm. “This—this can’t be forgiven. Don’t ask.”
I heard him begin to say something about: “Do you think I am made of——”
“Don’t speak to me again, please,” I said, still in that unnaturally quiet voice. “Not again.”
I snatched up my sun-bonnet from the gorse-bush, rammed it down over my hair, and tied the strings so tightly beneath my chin that they nearly throttled me. Then I turned, saying, “I forbid you to follow me,” and left him standing there between cliff and sky, beside the wooden woman.