"What is it?" he said.
She did not answer. A great impulse arose in her to wrench herself from him, to thrust him back but she could not. She stood—a prisoner—in his hold.
He waited a moment, still with his face bent over her, his lips close to her neck. "Is it anything that—matters?" he asked.
She felt his arms drawing her and quivered again like a trapped bird.
"Yes," she whispered.
"Very much?"
"Yes," she said again.
"Then you are angry with me," he said.
She was silent.
He pressed her suddenly very close. "Juliet, you don't hate me, do you?"
She caught her breath with a sob that sounded painfully hard and dry.
"I—couldn't have married you—if I had known," she said.