"You cannot even conceive of my loving you?"
"I—I can, Philip—it isn't that, I—I"—she was floundering among her own emotions—"I can under other circumstances, different conditions. Oh, don't you see—think of"—she had almost said "Lawrence," but hastily substituted—"my husband."
"I have thought of him. From the day you came, he has haunted my footsteps. But after all, he thinks you are dead."
"But I love him. Think of that, too."
"Oh, Claire, Claire, I have seen you when I felt perhaps you might—might learn to love me."
"Philip, it is impossible!" she cried. "Please don't let's spoil everything now. I so wanted to be just friends."
His faced kindled and his deep eyes glowed with a fire that both terrorized and fascinated her.
"We cannot be that, Claire." His voice vibrated with growing passion. They stood, facing each other, and she trembled like a reed in the wind.
"I saw you this morning in his arms," he was tense and speaking rapidly, "and I knew then that I loved you. Loved you with all the soul of me. I could have killed him, I tell you. Claire, Claire, I love you! You must not deny me love."
She did not, could not answer, her tongue refused to move, and her dry, hot mouth felt as if she would smother. She looked into his eyes and said nothing, while she shook violently.