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rm in an iron grip. "You are clever!" he whispered hoarsely. "You are too _damned_ clever! You are at it again, eh--to sidetrack me? It has been like that for two years now--always in some way, by some trick, you put me off! But you will put me off no more. You can play no trick here. We are alone, and I will not be tricked. It is not true what you say! There is no model like that! It is a lie!" His voice swelled until it rang out in a strong, vibrant note. "The model is here--here in my heart--in my brain! That face and form is the face and form of France! It is the womanhood of France, the glory of my country! No man before has ever conceived it. It was for me--for me--Jean Laparde--to do! Do you hear--it is the face and the womanhood of France! You do not understand--you are not a Frenchwoman. And you do not understand me--who am a Frenchman!" His voice dropped low again, hoarse in its passion. "You have gone too far!" His grip on her arm tightened. "You love me, or you have played with me--it is all the same! The two years have made you mine! You _are_ mine--now--now! You would starve my love, would you, you wonderful, beautiful, glorious woman!" He was drawing her closer and closer to him. Passion, loosened, freed, rocking the man to the soul, was in eyes and face, in the half parted lips, in the short, quick, panting breath. And for a moment, fascinated, she was lifeless; then with all her strength she wrenched and strove to free herself. "You would not _dare_!" she gasped. "You would not--" "Dare!"--the word was a wild, hollow laugh. "Dare! Does a man dare to save his soul from torment? See--your lips! Your lips! Ah, God--your lips!" She was his--_his_! She was in his arms, crushed to him! His--as his mad desire had bade him crush her in his arms long since in that other life in Bernay-sur-Mer; his--as he had dreamed of crushing her in his arms, of crushing her ravishing form close to him in the dreams of the days and nights, every day and night since then. It was all blind madness, a delirium of ecstasy. How warm and hot those lips of hers from which his soul was drinking! God, how she struggled! But her lips--her lips were his--his to rain his kisses of passionate thirst upon--and upon her face, and upon her eyes, and upon her hair. If only she would not struggle so, that he might smother his face, bury it in the intoxicating fragrance of that hair! She beat at
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