"Let me go!"
He said under his breath: "All right." And released her. For a moment she did not move but her hands covered her burning face and sealed her lids. She stood there, breathing fast and irregularly until she heard him move. Then, lowering her hands she
cast a heart-broken glance at him. And his ashen, haggard visage terrified her.
"Clive!" she faltered: he swung on his heel and caught her to him again.
She offered no resistance.
She was crying, now,—weeping perhaps for all that had been said—or remained unsaid—or maybe for all that could never be said between herself and this man in whose arms she was trembling. No need now for any further understanding, for excuses, for regrets, for any tardy wish expressed that things might have been different.
He offered no explanation; she expected none, would have suffered none, crying there silently against his shoulder. But the reaction was already invading him; the tide of self-contempt rose.
He said bitterly: "Now that I've done all the damage I could, I shall have to go—or offer—"
"There is no damage done—yet—"
"I have made you love me."