He went straight up to her, seized her fiercely in his arms and covered her mouth, her throat and neck with hot, furious kisses. This was not what Nance’s heart craved. She longed to sob out her suppressed feelings on his shoulder. She longed to be petted and caressed, gently, quietly, and with soft endearing words.
Instead of which, it seemed to her that he was seeking, as he embraced her body and clung to her flesh with his lips, to escape from his own thoughts, to suppress her thoughts, to sweep them both away—away from all rational consciousness—on the brutal impulse of mere animal passion.
Her tears which were on the point of flowing, in a tide of heart-easing abandonment, were driven inwards by his violence, and in her grey eyes, if he had cared to look, he would have seen a frightened appeal—pitiful and troubled—like the wild glance of a deer harried by dogs.
His violence brought its own reaction at last and, letting her go, he flung himself panting upon the ground. She stood above him for a while, flushed and silent, smoothing down her hair with her hands and looking into his face with a puzzled frown.
“Sit down,” he gasped. “Why do you stare at me like that?”
Obediently she placed herself by his side, tucked her skirt around her ankles and let her hands fall on her lap.
“Adrian,” she said, glancing shyly at him. “Why did you kiss me like that, just now?”
He propped himself up and gazed gloomily across the barley field. “Why—did—I—kiss you?” he muttered, as if speaking in a dream.
“Yes—why, like that, just then,” she went on. “It wasn’t like you and me at all. You were rough, Adrian. You weren’t yourself. Oh, my dear, my dear! I don’t believe you care for me half as you used to!”
He beat his fists irritably on the ground and an almost vindictive look came into his eyes.