All this he whispered in the old tones of manœuvring love, in that voice she had yearned and hungered to hear in life, and had not heard, for all her longing, save in her dreams.
She tried to crouch more and more into the corner, into the hidden shadow—to sink into the ground out of sight.
Once more he spoke, beseeching her to lift up her face, to let him hear her speak.
But she only moaned.
“Sylvia,” said he, thinking he could change his tactics, and pique her into speaking, that he would make a pretence of suspicion and offence.
“Sylvia! one would think you were not glad to see me back again at length. I only came in late last night, and my first thought on wakening was of you; it has been ever since I left you.”
Sylvia took her hands away from her face; it was grey as the face of death; her awful eyes were passionless in her despair.
“Where have yo’ been?” she asked, in slow, hoarse tones, as if her voice were half strangled within her.
“Been!” said he, a red light coming into his eyes, as he bent his looks upon her; now, indeed, a true and not an assumed suspicion entering his mind.