“How strangely your voice sounds, dear Cecil!”
“I am very hoarse from a severe cold, and my voice seems strange in my own ears,” he answered, suddenly gathering her closely in his arms, and pressing burning kisses on her quivering lips, her fair brow, dimpled cheeks, and even her warm, white throat.
Violet did not return her husband’s kisses. She only endured them at first in a passive way, then suddenly gave a little startled cry, and tried to writhe herself out of his arms.
“What is it, my own love?” he murmured, tenderly, but without releasing her.
“Oh, Cecil, you seem so strange! You do not kiss me as—as—you—used to do!” faltered the trembling bride.
Harold Castello gave a low laugh and answered, lightly:
“I was your lover then, my Violet, and dared not take all the kisses I wanted. Now I am your husband, sweet, and you are mine, all mine! and I can feast myself at will on your sweet, red lips! And the more I kiss you, my darling, the more intoxicated I grow, for your breath is like wine—it thrills me with bliss, it makes me dizzy!”
With every word she recoiled farther from him, lifting up her face, and trying to see him in the darkness of the carriage, while she almost moaned:
“I—I—you frighten me! You do not—do not—seem like my love, Cecil! I wish I could see your face. Your voice is so strange! It sounds like—oh, God—like the voice of the man I hate! Release me, release me! I die with fear! Oh, pitying Heaven, you are not Cecil! I have been duped!”
The words died on her trembling lips, her form collapsed in a deadly swoon.