With that, his hands dropped from her waist. His face had been pale with fatigue. Now it was paler with pain. "You don't—mean that, Marise?" he stammered.
And, of course, she didn't. Things had happened in the past which had encouraged him to this. He had thought she loved him. She was to blame as much as he was—more, perhaps—the Canyon would say.
"I'm sorry I boxed your ear, Tony," she apologised. "But—but—if you go on like this, I'm awfully afraid I shall lose my head and box it again."
"I don't understand you," he said, more quietly.
"I don't understand myself," she confessed.
"Then"—and fire from the Canyon lit Severance's Greek eyes—"it's my plan to make you understand. You love me. You daren't go back from it all, after what's passed. I love you, and you belong to me."
"Good afternoon, Severance," said Garth, at the window. "I heard you'd arrived."