"But you will be grateful, anyway, my little blossom. I promise you that you will learn to be very grateful—"
"It is easier to die than to learn to love a hated one," she reminded him softly, leaning towards him. "I can die very willingly, monsieur.... And you would not want a wife before whom there was always an object of terror—"
Through the dusk her great eyes sought his.
"Be generous—and harm him not," she breathed. "I beg of you, I implore—"
"And if I am—lenient—you will always be grateful?"
Mutely she nodded, her eyes trying pitifully to read that shadowy mask of mockery he turned towards her.
"And how grateful could you be, little dove?"
Pitifully she smiled.
"Could you," he murmured, "could you learn to kiss?"
He leaned nearer and involuntarily she shrank back. Faintly, "At this moment—I beg of you, monsieur—"