The word hit her like a slap. Shame. She had never heard it from his lips. In the house of Lord Greystoke, shame was a silk noose, a whisper at dinner. Here, it was a raw blade.
Tarzan stopped inches from her. He reached out and, with impossible gentleness, took the locket from her clenched fist. It was cheap brass, already tarnishing. tarazan shame of jane
Jane felt the shame then—not because he had shamed her, but because he was right. She had been careless with the trust of people who owed her nothing, and with the love of a man who owed her everything. The word hit her like a slap
The jungle held its breath. Not even a panther stirred in the velvet gloom. In the house of Lord Greystoke, shame was
“There is nothing to forgive,” he said. “Only something to remember. You are Jane of the Apes now. Act like it.”
And in the silence that followed, the jungle breathed again.
Tarzan watched her from the low branch of a muiri tree, his bronze skin streaked with woad and dust. His eyes were not angry. That would have been easier. They were disappointed, and worse—ashamed for her.