“Loose me,” he said, “loose me and let me go. I do not want to hurt you.”
“You could not hurt me, Nigel. I am past being hurt. My love would welcome pain.” Yet her lips quivered. Her eyes searched his. No answering light of love was in their sombre depths.
“You would loose me at once,” he said, “if you could know how much I loathe that you should hold and touch me.”
Her arms fell away from him. She pressed her hands against her breasts, as if his words had been an actual blow. She recoiled from him, moving backwards on her knees, gazing at him in dumb dismay; then hid her stricken face in both her hands.
He sprang to his feet, crossed to the window, and flung aside a curtain.
Dawn was breaking, in one pale silver streak on the horizon.
Sea birds called to one another in the distance.
A chill mist lay on the lawn. In the corner of the veranda he could see the ghostly outline of the chair in which he had waited the night before.
He turned back into the lighted room.
The fire burned low. He stirred the embers and threw on fresh logs.