He came over by her.
“Your hands are so beautiful. I would like to live like this always.”
“It would not be always June and warm,” she said.
“I love you, love you absolutely—what can change it?”
“What?” she repeated, even while she feared. “Don’t ask, you will spoil it.”
“You never—will not often let me kiss you. Why is it?”
“I hate kissing.”
“I will kiss you,” he said masterfully. “You are mine, mine, mine. You are an enchantress, a witch. When I am with you, or away from you, I think of nothing but you. My life is all you.”
He took her in his arms gently. She remembered with a shudder those horrible embraces of her first marriage. He kissed her lips, those warm red lips which were one of her chief beauties; but it was all done so gently.
“You were afraid of me,” he said. “Heavens! here is someone coming to call.”