"I don't want to be rich. Rich men torture each other," he cried, steadying himself against the back of a chair.
"You've only to say one word and you can walk out of here without a care in the world."
The sound of violins was in her voice. The promise of life care-free and full of sunshine was in her eyes and the curve of her smile.
He tried to look away, but the appeal was too strong.
"I can walk out of here," he repeated. "Out of here!"
"Such a lovely world, too."
The touch of her breath on his cheek was like a breeze and the smell of her hair like violets.
"Yes, yes."
"A great big garden of a world," he crooned, and no song ever sounded sweeter.
He felt his power to resist was ebbing away—falling from him like a cloak. With a mighty effort, he replied: