All her pity melted over him. She laid
her caressing fingers on his arm.
"Oh, my poor Dick!" she said.
[Illustration: He held out imploring hands.]
The touch, the choke in her voice, brought about Viviette's downfall.
Perhaps she meant it to do so. Who can tell? What woman ever knows? In a
flash his arms were around her and his kisses, a wild, primitive man's
kisses, were on her lips, her eyes, her cheeks. Her face was crushed
against the rough wet tweed of his coat, and its odour, raw and coarse,
was in her nostrils. She drooped, intoxicated, gasping for breath in his
unheeding giant's grip, but she made no effort to escape. As he held her
a thrill, agonising and delicious, swept through her, and she raised her
lips involuntarily to his and closed her eyes. At last he released her,
mangled, tousled, her very self a draggled piece of chiffon like the
night-blue frock, soiled with wet and mud.
"Forgive me," he said, "I had no right. Least of all now. God knows what
is to become of me. But whatever happens, you know that I love you.
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