There were
sparkles of light in her hair that shone as precious metal shines in
ore. Her hands were both fast gripped upon the ironwork on which she
leant.
He took a step forward and was close beside her, but he did not again
offer her his hand.
"Will you answer my original question?" he said. "I asked--when?"
In the moonlight he could see her shivering, shivering violently. She
shook her head; but he persisted.
His manner was supremely calm and unhurried.
"This week?" he said.
She shook her head again with more decision.
"Oh, no--no!" she said.
"Next?" he suggested.
"No!" she said again.
He was looking at her full and deliberately, but she would not look at
him. She was quaking in every limb. There was a pause. Then Wingarde
spoke again.
"Why not next week?" he asked. "Have you any particular reason?"
She glanced at him.
"It would be--so soon," she faltered.
"What difference does that make?" A very strange smile touched his grim
lips. "Having made up your mind to do something disagreeable, do you
find shirking till the last moment makes it any easier--any more
palatable? Surely the sooner it's over--"
"It never will be over," she broke in passionately.
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