"What is the matter?
Why do you struggle so ?" "Let me go," she gasped, in a vehement whisper.

"I h--hate you." "My poor love, you are too cold to hate anyone--even your husband.

You must let me take off these atrocious French boots.

Your feet must be perfectly dead." By this time her voice and tears were thawing in the warmth of the chalet and of his caresses.

"You shall not take them off," she said, crying with cold and sorrow.