was sobbing silently, in grief for herself. Without looking, he saw. It made his mad desire to destroy her come back.
At length he lifted his head. His eyes were glowing again, fixed on her.
“And what did he give them you for?” he asked, in a steady, unyielding voice.
Her crying dried up in a second. She also was tense.
“They came as valentines,” she replied, still not subjugated, even if beaten.
“When, to-day?”
“The pearl ear-rings to-day—the amethyst brooch last year.”
“You’ve had it a year?”
“Yes.”
She felt that now nothing would prevent him if he rose to kill her. She could not prevent him any more. She was yielded up to him. They both trembled in the balance, unconscious.
“What have you had to do with him?” he asked, in a barren voice.
“I’ve not had anything to do with him,” she quavered.
“You just kept ’em because they were jewellery?” he said.
A weariness came over him. What was the worth of speaking any more of it? He did not care any more. He was dreary and sick.
She began to cry again, but he took no notice. She kept wiping her mouth on her handkerchief. He could see it, the blood-mark. It made him only more sick and tired of the responsibility of it, the violence, the shame.
