"I didn’t come here to get money out of you. I don’t expect anything more from you."
He couldn’t see her face, but her voice was steady and quiet. He grew yet more alarmed.
"What did you come here for? What do you want?"
"It’s none of your business," she said slowly.
She was struggling with a terrible fury against him—this careless young man who was living so well without her. She longed to let herself go, to turn on him with a torrent of abuse, to swear at him, shriek at him; but she must not. She dared not antagonize him. He, too, had a temper, and, if he lost it, God only knew what irreparable harm he might do her. She had now, and always, either to propitiate him or to frighten him; by some means to make him hold his tongue.
Vincent’s arm tightened on Angelica’s shoulder.
"You’ve got to tell me!" he said. "I’ll have no more of your damned nonsense. What do you want here?"
She made no answer, but stood motionless in the dark.
"Tell me!" he said fiercely. "What do you expect to get here?"
Still she was silent.