“Ann,” he said unsteadily, “little dear Ann!”
She met his gaze with eyes like stars—clear and unafraid.
“You haven’t said you trusted me!” A note of tender amusement quivered in her voice. “Do you, Eliot?”
For a moment his eyes seemed to burn out at her from under his heavily drawn brows.
“Trust you?” he said hoarsely. “I don’t know whether I trust you or not!... But I know I want you!”
And once more he swept her up into his embrace.
“My beloved!”
His kisses rained down on her face—fierce, imperious kisses that seemed to draw the very soul out of her body and seal it his, and when at last he let her go she leaned against him, tremulously spent and shaken with the rapture of answering passion which had kindled to life within her.
“Tell me you love me!” he insisted. “Let me hear you say it—to make it real!”
And turning to give herself to him again, she hid her face against his shoulder, whispering: