"Put your ear quite close. It's not a matter that can be shouted from the house-tops."
She had shouted loud enough that she hated him. She had not whispered that fact.
A spasm of pain crossed his face.
Why did she fight against him? This slender, lovely, helpless girl, whom he could break with one hand. She fought bravely, with all the odds against her. And she had dared to do what no one else in the place dared do. What no one had ever done in the whole of his wild, unbridled life. She had dared to strike him, fair and square, with all her strength, across the mouth.
Then suddenly his anger melted. A smile came and played about his scarred lips.
Surely no man could be angry for long with a girl so brave and helpless.
He deserved it for his deception. Just as he had deserved her scorn and contempt over Lucille. She was always giving him what he deserved, this little English flower of his.
More than he deserved, a struggling conscience breathed.
For he had never deserved those three words she had once whispered in his ear:
"I love you."