“But you must go, my love. It’s late.”
“What time is it?” he said.
Strange, his man’s voice. She quivered. It was an intolerable oppression to her.
“Past five o’clock,” she said.
But he only closed his arms round her again. Her heart cried within her in torture. She disengaged herself firmly.
“You really must go,” she said.
“Not for a minute,” he said.
She lay still, nestling against him, but unyielding.
“Not for a minute,” he repeated, clasping her closer.
“Yes,” she said, unyielding, “I’m afraid if you stay any longer.”
There was a certain coldness in her voice that made him release her, and she broke away, rose and lit the candle. That then was the end.
He got up. He was warm and full of life and desire.