"The key! Where's the key?"
The words came sobbingly.
He put his fingers in his pocket.
"Here," he answered coolly.
Despairingly she retreated from the door. There was an expression in his
eyes that terrified her--a furnace heat of passion barely held in check.
The Englishman within him was in abeyance; the hot, foreign blood was
leaping in his veins.
"Max!" she faltered appealingly.
He crossed swiftly to her side, gripping her soft, bare arms in a hold so
fierce that his fingers scored them with red weals.
"By God, Diana! What do you think I'm made of?" he burst out violently.
"For months you've shut yourself away from me and I've borne it,
waiting--waiting always for you to come back to me. Do you think it's
been easy?" His limbs were shaking, and his eyes burned into hers. "And
now--now you tell me that you've done with me. . . You take everything
from me! My love is to count for nothing!"
"You never loved me!" she protested, with low, breathless vehemence.
"It--it could never have been love."
For a moment he was silent, staring at her.
Then he laughed.
"Very well. Call it desire, passion--what you will!" he exclaimed
brutally. "But--you married me, you know!"
She cowered away from him, looking to right and left like a trapped
animal seeking to escape, but he held her ruthlessly, forcing her to face
him.
All at once, her nerve gave way, and she began to cry--helpless,
despairing weeping that rocked the slight form in his grasp.
Pages:
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272