"The odor of those pines, out there," he said, "makes me drunk, and the odor of your hair makes me insane." And he was kissing her--those fierce, strong caresses that at once repelled and compelled her.
"I hate you!" she panted.

"I hate you!" "Oh, no, you don't," retorted he.

"That isn't what's in your eyes." And he held her so tightly that she was almost crying out with pain.
"Please--please!" she gasped.

And she wrenched to free herself.

One of his hands slipped, his nail tore a long gash in her neck; the blood spurted out, she gave a loud cry, an exaggerated cry--for the pain, somehow, had a certain pleasure in it.