"What, he didn't ask about me? Philip? I don't believe it! Oh, my God!"
She clung to Philip, mutely; her face, her breath coming warm and fast.
"I wish to God I'd never seen either of you," cried Philip.
"Ah, but wasn't he your friend, Philip? Didn't yo' tell me that?" And the boy bowed his head sadly.
"Answer me!" she screamed, shaking him. "Weren't you his friend?"
"Yes, Maura—"
"But you lied to me, Philip, you lied to me! You took messages from me—you brought back—lies!" Two pearls, large as pigeon's eggs, shone in Maura's burnished face.
"To think," she cried in a hollow sepulchral voice, "that I dreamed about a ghost, a man who didn't exist. Oh, God, why should I suffer like this? Why was I ever born? What did I do, what did my people do, to deserve such misery as this?"
She rose, leaving Philip with his head buried in his hands. She went into the night, tearing her hair, scratching her face, raving.
"Oh, how happy I was! I was a happy girl! I was so young and I had such merry dreams! And I wanted so little! I was carefree—"