She lay and nibbled at a sprig of dwarf rhododendron. She fought him at first, screaming at him, but he did not relent. A woman is supposed to know when a man is in love with her. This time they would call it murder. '" "No, we can't stand that," hiccupped Smith, scarcely able to keep his legs. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. For this three weeks had been the hardest of her life. It was not due to shyness: it was the inherent instinct of the Woman, a protective fear that she must retain some elements of mystery in order to hold the interest of the male.
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