"Look here, Valerie, you know I'm crazy about you—"
"Will you let me go?"
"Oh, come, little girl, I know who you are, all right! Be a good little sport and—"
"Let me go," she whispered between her teeth. Then his red, perspiring features—the prominent eyes and loose mouth drew nearer—nearer—and she struck blindly at the face with her dog-whip—twice with the lash and once with the stag-horn handle. And the next instant she was running.
He caught her at the foot of the slope; she saw blood on his cheek and puffy welts striping his distorted features, strove to strike him again, but felt her arm powerless in his grasp.
"Are you mad!" she gasped.
"Mad about you! For God's sake listen to me, Valerie! Batter me, tear me to pieces—and I won't care, if you'll listen to me a moment—"
She struggled silently, fiercely, to use her whip, to wrench herself free.
"I tell you I love you!" he said; "I'd go through hell for you. You've got to listen—you've got to know—"
"You coward!" she sobbed.