Again and yet again
I kissed her; I pressed her lips till they were dry and burned like
fire, then kissed cheek, forehead, hair, and, casting my arms about
her strained her to my breast in a long, passionate embrace; then the
violence of the paroxysm was over, and with a pang I released her. She
trembled: her face was whiter than alabaster, and, covering it with
her hands, she sank down on the sofa. I sat down beside her and drew
her head down on my breast, but we remained silent, only our hearts
were beating very fast. Presently she disengaged herself, and, without
bestowing one glance on me, rose and left the room.
Before long I began to blame myself bitterly for this imprudent
outburst. I dared not hope to continue longer on the old familiar
footing. So high-spirited and sensitive a woman as Dolores would not
easily be brought to forget or forgive my conduct. She had not repelled
me, she had even tacitly consented to that one first kiss, and was
therefore partly to blame herself; but her extreme pallor, her silence,
and cold manner had plainly shown me that I had wounded her. My passion
had overcome me, and I felt that I had compromised myself. For that
one first kiss I had all but promised to do a certain thing, and not
to do it now seemed very dishonourable, much as I shrank from joining
the Blanco rebels. I had proposed the thing myself; she had silently
consented to the stipulation.
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