But
she faced him still, faced him though every instinct of her
womanhood shrank with a dread unspeakable.
"You know me," she said again. "You may not know me very well, but
you know me well enough for that."
It was bravely spoken, but as she ceased to speak she felt her
strength begin to fail her. Her throat worked spasmodically,
convulsively, and a terrible tremor went through her. She saw him
as through a haze that blotted out all beside.
There fell a silence between them--a dreadful, interminable silence
that seemed to stretch into eternities. And through it very
strangely she heard the wild beating of her own heart, like the
hoofs of a galloping horse, that seemed to die away. . . .
She did not know whether she fell, or whether he lifted her, but
when the blinding mist cleared away again, she was lying in the
wicker-chair by the window, and he was walking up and down the room
with the ceaseless motion of a prowling animal. She sat up slowly
and looked at him. She was shivering all over, as if stricken with
cold.
At her movement he came and stood before her, but he did not speak.
He seemed to be watching her. Or was he waiting for something?
She could not tell; neither, as he stood there, could she look up
at him to see. Only, after a moment, she leaned forward. She
found and held his hand.
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