"He wants me!" she said.
"Wants you? As he wants his dinner. And when he's eaten it--what then?
No, of course he'll never abandon you; his conscience is too tender. But
you'll be round his neck--like this!" Bianca raised her arms, looped,
and dragged them slowly down, as a mermaid's arms drag at a drowning
sailor.
The little model stammered: "I'll do what he tells me! I'll do what he
tells me!"
Bianca stood silent, looking at the girl, whose heaving breast and
little peacock's feather, whose small round hands twisting in front of
her, and scent about her clothes, all seemed an offence.
"And do you suppose that he'll tell you what he wants? Do you imagine
he'll have the necessary brutality to get rid of you? He'll think
himself bound to keep you till you leave him, as I suppose you will some
day!"
The girl dropped her hands. "I'll never leave him--never!" she cried out
passionately.
"Then Heaven help him!" said Bianca.
The little model's eyes seemed to lose all pupil, like two chicory
flowers that have no dark centres. Through them, all that she was
feeling struggled to find an outlet; but, too deep for words, those
feelings would not pass her lips, utterly unused to express emotion. She
could only stammer:
"I'm not--I'm not--I will---" and press her hands again to her breast.
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