She was uneasy.

She drew away.
'Isn't somebody coming ?' she said.
So they looked down the dark road, then set off again walking towards Beldover.

Then suddenly, to show him she was no shallow prude, she stopped and held him tight, hard against her, and covered his face with hard, fierce kisses of passion.

In spite of his otherness, the old blood beat up in him.
'Not this, not this,' he whimpered to himself, as the first perfect mood of softness and sleep-loveliness ebbed back away from the rushing of passion that came up to his limbs and over his face as she drew him.
And soon he was a perfect hard flame of passionate desire for her.

Yet in the small core of the flame was an unyielding anguish of another thing.