room. She, hearing him coming, did not face about and put him back
in his place with one haughty look. Instead, she in impulsive,
most ill-timed panic, quickened her step. When the woman flees,
the man, if there be any manhood in him, pursues. He caught her,
held her fast.

"Let me go!" she cried, not with the compelling force of offended
dignity, but with the hysterical ineffectiveness of terror. "You
are rough. You hurt."

He laughed, turned her about in his arms until she was facing him.
"The odor of those pines, out there," he said, "makes me drunk,
and the odor of your hair makes me insane." And he was kissing
her--those fierce, strong caresses that at once repelled and
compelled her.

"I hate you!" she panted. "I hate you!"

"Oh, no, you don't," retorted he. "That isn't what's in your
eyes." And he held her so tightly that she was almost crying out
with pain.

"Please--please!" she gasped. And she wrenched to free herself.
One of his hands slipped, his nail tore a long gash in her neck;
the blood spurted out, she gave a loud cry, an exaggerated cry--
for the pain, somehow, had a certain pleasure in it. He released
her, stared vacantly at the wound he had made. She rushed into her
room, slammed the door and locked it.

"Margaret!" he implored.