I have told you
so." He pressed her closely to him, feeling his urgent need to make the
most of what she had to give him. Her apathy struck him mortally chill; he
wooed her the more desperately.
Holding her to his heart--an inanimate burden--he kissed her cold lips,
her eyelids, her hair; called her by names whose use she had long
forgotten, whose revival caused her pain like nausea. If he could have
known it, this was the last way to win her. It was like pressing upon a
queasy invalid the sweets which had made him sick. But he, remembering
their ancient potency, seeing himself the triumphant wielder of charms,
felt secure in them still; therefore she was his darling, his hardy little
lover, his Queen of Love, his saucy Sancie, his lass. On fire himself by
his own blowing, at last he fell upon his knees and clasped hers:
"Dearest, most beautiful, my own, I love you more than ever. Comfort me,
be my salvation--I pray that I may be worth your while. Marry me, Sancie,
and save my soul alive."
Honestly, for the moment, he believed himself irresistible, and so far
succeeded with her that her disgust hid itself in a cloud of pity. She
felt pity for a man abject at her feet, and could speak more kindly to
him.
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