He struggles bravely, but in vain. Its lusts satisfied, his treacherous body is lazy and limp. Here is the moment he has dreaded: sleep is dragging at his eyelids, his brain is languid, his strength is spent. He must abdicate to slumber, lose his tight control, and let all consciousness slip. His resistance, though determined, is futile.
This, then, is the hour of truth. What will she do, this woman whom passion has not worn out, when he is at her mercy?
Before he drifts off, he hears her low voice. “Trust me,” she murmurs, “I won’t cut your hair.”