“I have loved you from the moment I first saw you,” he said. “Haven’t you felt my kisses on your eyelids whenever I looked at you, Deirdre?”
So I knew at last what it was in his burning glance that had always closed my eyes.
“You are like an exquisite flower,” he muttered, “too beautiful to be worn in my soiled heart. But I will wear you,” he fiercely added.
“‘Who loves flowers loves sorrow.’” The old French proverb came uncalled to my lips.
“You and I cannot love without sorrow,” he said, branding the words on my lips with his.
Ah! God knows I was all woman then, throbbing, aching woman in the arms of the man I loved.
“Let me see your eyes,” he said, and his voice thrilled like a violin bow across the strings of my heart. “I shall go mad if you do not open your eyes.”
And I opened them to the beauty of his face.
Ah, yes, he was beautiful! He had the beauty of the gods. If I were half so beautiful at that moment it was no wonder that his lips were pale though they burnt like flame, that his hands shook and his voice stammered.
“Speak to me!” he cried. “Say that you love me!”