You won't
answer me unless you choose, of course. But--come now, Sancie, is there,
might there be--somebody else?"
She looked round at him from where she knelt. Her hands were opened to the
fire; her face was warmed by its glow; it was the pure face of a seraph.
"No. There's nobody at all--now."
He was again standing before the little photograph of the nymph thigh-deep
in water. That seemed to attract him; but he heard her "now," and started.
"I take your word for it, absolutely. But, seeing what you felt for Nevile
in the beginning, I should have thought--in any ordinary case--there must
have been a tender spot--unless, of course, you had changed your mind--for
reasons--"
She got up from her knees, and stood, leaning by the mantelpiece. Her low
voice stirred him strangely.
"There are reasons. The spot, as you call it, is so tender that it's raw."
"Good Lord," said Chevenix. "What do you mean?"
She was full of her reasons, evidently. Rumours of them, so to say, drove
over her eyes, showed cloudily and angrily there. Her beautiful mouth
looked cruel--as if she saw death and took joy in it. "I think he is
horrible," she said. "I think he is like a beast. He doesn't love me at
all until he comes here--and then he expects me--Oh, don't ask me to talk
about it.
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