“I’ll take it, then.”
“Do you think this is the way to make me have you?”
“I do; a woman’s never mistress of herself till she’s been mastered by a man.”
“Don’t apply your aphorisms to me, if you please; I’m not like the women you know.”
“Aren’t you? That’s where you make a mistake, my girl; women never know themselves.”
“I know myself well enough to be sure I’m not going to kiss you.”
“Very possibly you aren’t; that’s not the point, though I should like you to. I’m going to kiss you.”
“Let me go!”
“One kiss, Dolly.”
“Let me go!” Dolly repeated, struggling against him. She would have had a chance with any other man, for she was strong and supple and desperate; but Noel Farquhar’s arms closed round her like a snake’s constricting folds. Though the cottage was within earshot, Dolly would have died sooner than call for help. She went on fighting, and when he drew her down she turned her face away. Uselessly: Farquhar’s hand was laid against her cheek, and he bent her face to his. They looked into each other’s eyes: Dolly’s all rebellion, his all fire; and then he kissed her.