The little room was fragrant with flowers, Anna herself bright, and with all the evidences of well being. The fact itself is regrettable enough—regrettable, I fear, is quite an inadequate word. But recently he had asked God to pile it all on him; and God had added this, with a fresh portion for Ruth. “My God! Ann Veronica,” he said, struggling to keep his hold upon her; “my God! Tell me—tell me now—tell me you love me!” His expression was as it were rapaciously furtive. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood.
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