She uttered a low cry: "Louis!" Then:
"It—it is all over—with us," she faltered. "I—had never thought of you—this way."
"Can you think of me this way, now?"
"I—can't help it."
"Dearest—dearest—" he stammered, and kissed her unresponsive lips, her throat, her hair. She only gazed silently at the man whose arms held her tightly imprisoned.
Under the torn lace and silk one bare shoulder glimmered; and he kissed it, touched the pale veins with his lips, drew the arm from his neck and kissed elbow, wrist, and palm, and every slender finger; and still she looked at him as though dazed. A lassitude, heavy, agreeable to endure, possessed her. She yielded to the sense of fatigue—to the confused sweetness that invaded her; every pulse in her body beat its assent, every breath consented.
"Will you try to care for me, Valerie?"
"You know I will."
"With all your heart?" he asked, trembling.
"I do already."