“He wants me!” she said.
“Wants you? As he wants his dinner. And when he's eaten it—what then? No, of course he'll never abandon you; his conscience is too tender. But you'll be round his neck—like this!” Bianca raised her arms, looped, and dragged them slowly down, as a mermaid's arms drag at a drowning sailor.
The little model stammered: “I'll do what he tells me! I'll do what he tells me!”
Bianca stood silent, looking at the girl, whose heaving breast and little peacock's feather, whose small round hands twisting in front of her, and scent about her clothes, all seemed an offence.
“And do you suppose that he'll tell you what he wants? Do you imagine he'll have the necessary brutality to get rid of you? He'll think himself bound to keep you till you leave him, as I suppose you will some day!”
The girl dropped her hands. “I'll never leave him—never!” she cried out passionately.
“Then Heaven help him!” said Bianca.
The little model's eyes seemed to lose all pupil, like two chicory flowers that have no dark centres. Through them, all that she was feeling struggled to find an outlet; but, too deep for words, those feelings would not pass her lips, utterly unused to express emotion. She could only stammer:
“I'm not—I'm not—I will—-” and press her hands again to her breast.
Bianca's lip curled.