The eyes opened, he remained motionless, looking at
her. Her heart stood still. To hide her face from his dreadful opened
eyes, in the darkness, she bent down and kissed him, whispering:
'You must go, my love.'
But she was sick with terror, sick.
He put his arms round her. Her heart sank.
'But you must go, my love. It's late.'
'What time is it?' he said.
Strange, his man's voice. She quivered. It was an intolerable
oppression to her.
'Past five o'clock,' she said.
But he only closed his arms round her again. Her heart cried within her
in torture. She disengaged herself firmly.
'You really must go,' she said.
'Not for a minute,' he said.
She lay still, nestling against him, but unyielding.
'Not for a minute,' he repeated, clasping her closer.
'Yes,' she said, unyielding, 'I'm afraid if you stay any longer.'
There was a certain coldness in her voice that made him release her,
and she broke away, rose and lit the candle. That then was the end.
He got up.
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