"What are you saying ?" But though I begged her to be silent, my soul was avid for more such words from her--from her, the most perfect and beautiful of women.
"Why should I not ?" said she.

"Is truth ever to be stifled?
Ever ?" I was mad, I know--quite mad.

Her words had made me so.

And when, to ask me that insistent question, she brought her face still nearer, I flung down the reins of my unreason and let it ride amain upon its desperate, reckless course.

In short, I too leaned forward, I leaned forward, and I kissed her full upon those scarlet, parted lips.
I kissed her, and fell back with a cry that was of anguish almost--so poignantly had the sweet, fierce pain of that kiss run through my every fibre.