Staring, she uttered in a low voice: “Never!”
“Or,” he amended, deliberately, “you may keep them, burn them, do what you will with them—on fair terms—my terms.”
She said nothing, but her dilate eyes held fixedly to his. He moved a pace or two nearer, his voice dropped to a lower key, the light she had learned to loathe flickered in the depths of his eyes.
“Come back to me, Sofia! I can’t live without you ...”
Her lips moved to deny him, but made no sound. Now it was revealed to her, the way.
“Come back to me, Sofia!”
His hand crept along the edge of the table and lifted, quivering, to capture hers. She steeled herself to endure its touch, against sickening repulsion she fought to achieve a smile that would carry a suggestion of at least forgetfulness.
“And if I do—?” she murmured.
He gave a violent start, blood suffused his face darkly, his arms leapt out to enfold her. She stepped back, evading him with a movement of coquetry that served, as it was intended, to inflame him the more.
“Wait!” she insisted. “Answer me first: If I return to you—then what?”