"It is his." "And it cannot be mine--at any time ?" She shook her head, trembling.
"Never ?" And, suddenly reaching forward, he gripped her wrist in an iron grasp.

There was passion in his tone.

His eyes burned her.
Whether it was that set her on another track, or pure despair, or the cry in her ears of little children and of helpless women, something in a moment inspired her, flashed in her eyes and altered her voice.

She raised her head and looked him firmly in the face.
"What," she said, "do you mean by love ?" "You!" he answered brutally.
"Then--it may be, Monsieur," she returned.

"There is a way if you will." "A way!" "If you will!" As she spoke she rose slowly to her feet; for in his surprise he had released her wrist.