Rhett trapped her wrists in a circle of his fingers. “I love you, you abusive wench.” His expression hardened. “And I’ll kill that bastard Fenton if he tries to take you from me.

I won’t risk it again. I won’t destroy myself for you.

That Billy was her only child was testimony to death of the romance.

Rhett was watching the race through field glasses. Even ten feet away she could smell the whiskey on him. He was rocking on his feet. Drunk? Not Rhett. He could always hold his liquor. Had Bart’s disaster upset him that much?

No woman can be truly beautiful who is not, also sometimes, truly ugly.

Do you not see that love feeds without gluttony on itself, that love is an ever-brimming cup, from which drinking fills again and still more.

Every baby’s the only in my observation of mothers.

Put me down and I’ll show you,” said Scarlett. Rhett lowered her to her feet. His big hands closed on her shoulders, and he pulled her to him impatiently, then kissed her, briefly, firmly, and let her go. “I’d hate to be shot without getting what I came for,” he said. She could hear the laughter in his voice. “Now, Scarlett, get us out of here.

I guess I let things get me down as far as a person can go, she thought with disgust, and her own scorn warmed her. I won’t let it happen again, ever, no matter what comes. Once you get down all the way, the road can only go up.

During that year Scarlett had been so busy, had experienced such changes in her life, that she’d been able to block out the pain he had caused her. Now it tore her heart, and with the pain was a deep fear of Rhett’s unpredictable power. She transformed them into rage. Rage was strengthening.