Without power, without will, passive, dependent on his strength, her trembling knees almost failed her.

She seemed unconscious of his lips on her cheek, on her hair--of her cold hands crushed in his, of the words he uttered--senseless, broken phrases, questions to which her silence answered and her closed lids acquiesced.

If love was what he was asking for, why did he ask?
He had his will of her lips, her hair, her slim fragrant hands; and now of her tears--for the lashes were wet and the mouth trembled.

Her mind was slowly awaking to pain.
With it, far within her in unknown depths, something else stirred, stilling her swelling heart.

Then every vein in her grew warm; and the quick tears sprang to her eyes.
"Dearest--dearest--" he whispered.