Nicky, go now. He's hotheaded, too. Quit blinking, Nicky--for God's
sake--Nicky--"
It was then Nicholas bent back her head as he did when he kissed her
there on the swan's arch to her neck, only this time his palm was
against her forehead and his other between her shoulder blades.
"I could kill you," he said, and laughed with his teeth. "I could bend
back your neck until it breaks."
"Ni--i--Nic--ky--"
"And I want to," he said through the star-spangled red. "I want you to
crack when I twist. I'm going to twist--twist--"
And he did, shoving back her hair with his palm, and suddenly bared,
almost like a grimace, up at him, was the glass-shotted spot where
the wine tumbler had ground in, greenish now, like the flanges of her
nostrils.
Somewhere--down a dear brow was a singed spot like that--singed with the
flame of pain--
"Nicky, for God's sake--you're--you're spraining my neck! Let go! Nicky.
God! if you hadn't let go just when you did. You had me croaking.
Nicky-boy--kiss me now and go! Go! To-morrow at six--clear for
you--always--only go--please, boy--my terrible--my wonderful.
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