She couldn't answer
him. He came over to her. He knelt on the dry grass, took her head
between his hands, and kissed her again and again and again.
She heard him murmur: "Maggie . . . Maggie . . . Maggie. You must
love me. You must. I've waited so long. I didn't know what love was.
God in His Mercy forgive me for the thoughts I've had this year.
You've tormented me. Tantalised me. You're a witch. A witch. You're
so strange, so odd, so unlike any one. You've enchanted me. Love me.
Maggie . . . Love me . . . Love me."
She caught his words all broken and scattered. She felt his heart
beating against her body, and his hands were hot to the touch of her
cold cheek. She felt that he was desperate and ashamed and pitiful.
She felt, above all else, that she must respond--and she could not.
She strove to give him what he needed. She caught his hands, and
then, because she knew that she was acting falsely and the whole of
her nature was in rebellion, she drew back. He felt her withdraw.
His hands dropped.
She burst into tears, suddenly hiding her face in her hands as she
used to do when she was a little girl.
Pages:
685
686
687
688
689
690
691
692
693
694
695
696
697
698
699
700
701
702
703
704
705
706
707
708
709