Last evening when they were walking together on the veranda he had begun again to make love to her, and in still more passionate earnest--had held her hands--had tried to kiss her.

She had found herself giving way to the old romantic intoxication--then had wrenched herself from him only just before the meeting of lips.
At last, she had realized the strength of the glamour.

She fought against it; nevertheless, in imagination gave herself up to it, as the opium-smoker or haschisch-eater gives himself up to the insidious FANTASIA of his drug.
Yes, Bridget thought it was like what she had read of the effects of some unholy drug--some uncanny form of hypnotism.
For she knew that she did not really love Maule--that her feeling for him was unwholesome.
There was poison in it acting upon her affection for and trust in her husband.

Maule made subtle insinuations to McKeith's detriment, injected doubts that rankled.

There were no definite charges, though he would hint sometimes at gossip he had heard in Tunumburra.