Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story

She stood with her back to the postern. Anger in her eyes had given place to scorn. “You mean,” she said, “that you go back on your promise?” “You will release me from it.” “You mean you are afraid to die?” “You will not be guilty of my death. You love me.” “Good night, you miserable coward.” She stepped back through the postern. “Don’t, Zuleika! Miss Dobson, don’t! Pull yourself together! Reflect! I implore you... You will repent...” Slowly she closed the postern on him. “You will repent. I shall wait here, under your window...” He heard a bolt rasped into its socket. He heard the retreat of a light tread on the paven hall. And he hadn’t even kissed her! That was his first thought. He ground his heel in the gravel. And he had hurt her wrists! This was Zuleika’s first thought, as she came into her bedroom. Yes, there were two red marks where he had held her. No man had ever dared to lay hands on her. With a sense of contamination, she proceeded to wash her hands thoroughly with soap and water. From time to time such words as “cad” and “beast” came through her teeth. She dried her hands and flung herself into a chair, arose and went pacing the room. So this was the end of her great night! What had she done to deserve it? How had he dared? There was a sound as of rain against the window. She was glad. The night needed cleansing.