“Moved beyond modesty, the arms uplift and cling—weak-strong arms, made supple to curve around the bodies of babes. The lips soon learn why they are so thick and honey-sweet, soon learn to give and to ask back in double dole.
“The inarticulate murmur of yearnings that crave utterance, but are ashamed of words.... The sobs of utter innocence.... The tender form that seems to shrink even as it seeks.... At last the naked desire.... Its brief, breathless struggle to control.... The delirium of yielding to its will....
“The hoping fear....
“The fearing hope....”
CHAPTER XVIII
The works of the old Cabot clock were worn out. During the days and nights that followed its last tick Dolores often glanced up into its non-committal face, reproachful that it would no longer mark off the minutes. Time dragged, weighted by her doubt over the state of mind of John.
Then, one night after twelve, when all the household was asleep, he came back to her. He folded her against his heart. He took her lips. He claimed her with full acknowledgment of his dependency.
“God forgive me,” he said. “It is too much for me.”
There was no need for him to explain. His white face, the pound of his heart against hers, his inconsistent pleas for pardon that he might be free to sin again, all helped her to understand. He was possessed by the passion of an all-demanding love. He had fought a fight; had fought and had failed.
And Dolores could not lament his defeat. Only one thing mattered, that John’s love answered hers. She had called and he had heard. Against his will he had come. Their acknowledgment, then, had not been a regrettable impulse; had been, rather, what was to be. They loved, and Heaven was in their hearts. They loved.