“You are raving,” he said again.
“Ask her—ask her, if yo’ don’ bleeve me. Ask her ’f Faginia Herrick didn’ bring her a leetle bit o’ blue velvet to w’ar round her throat the night she got wet in th’ rain. She said then it smelt damp like it had been in a attic. Ask her—ask her.”
“God in heaven!” said Roden, between his teeth, “can you be telling me the truth?”
“He knows I am!—He knows I am!” she said, wildly.
Roden turned from her, resting his hand on the back of the chair in which he had sat when he first entered the room. His head drooped. The double horror seemed like a palpable thing at his side.
“D’ yo’ bleeve me?” she said, with panting eagerness.
“Yes,” he said. She would not have recognized his voice had he spoken in the dark.
She waited a few moments, motionless, frozen, as it were, with suspense and dread. Then she leaned forward, and holding fast her bosom with her crossed arms in the gesture usual with her, fixed her dilating eyes upon him. Was it possible, could it be true, that after all he could not curse her? Nay, dear God! was he even going to forgive her?
“Say something,” she said, in a bated voice—“say somethin’. Jess so you don’ curse me, say somethin’.”