“No! No. Not that. Only—”
“Why, what else?” he said. And he stepped up to her, and put his arm around her. She felt the front of his body terribly near to her, and alive.
“Oh, not now, not now,” she cried, trying to push him away.
“Why not? It’s only six o’clock. You’ve got half an hour. Nay! Nay! I want you.”
He held her fast and she felt his urgency. Her old instinct was to fight for her freedom. But something else in her was strange and inert and heavy. His body was urgent against her, and she hadn’t the heart any more to fight.
He looked round.
“Come—come here! Through here,” he said, looking penetratingly into the dense fir trees, that were young and not more than half-grown.
He looked back at her. She saw his eyes, tense and brilliant, fierce, not loving. But her will had left her. A strange weight was on her limbs. She was giving way. She was giving up.
He led her through the wall of prickly trees, that were difficult to come through, to a place where there was a little space and a pile of dead boughs. He threw one or two dry ones down, put his coat and waistcoat over them, and she had to lie down there under the boughs of the tree, like an animal, while he waited, standing there in his shirt and breeches, watching her with haunted eyes. But still he was provident—he made her lie properly, properly. Yet he broke the band of her underclothes, for she did not help him, only lay inert.
He too had bared the front part of his body and she felt his naked flesh against her as he came in to her. For a moment he was still inside her,