In the determination to appear, and be, energetic, he spoke with a rough obstinacy, a doggedness that now and then became violence. “I am decided on it now. There’s a train to Bristol at ten-twenty. You will pack just a few things; we shan’t be away for more than a day or two.”
Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday—By Friday they might be back. Till now, in an anguish of uncertainty, Monica had made up her mind. She would keep the appointment on Friday, come of it what might. If she could not be back in time, she would write a letter.
“Why are you talking in this tone?” she said coldly.
“What tone? I am telling you what I have decided to do, that’s all. I shall easily find a house down there, no doubt. Knowing the place, you will be able to suggest the likely localities.”
She sat down, for strength was failing her.
“It’s quite true,” Widdowson went on, staring at her with inflamed eyes. “You are beginning to look like a ghost. Oh, we’ll have an end of this!” He cackled in angry laughter. “Not a day’s unnecessary delay! Write to both your sisters this evening and tell them. I wish them both to come and live with us.”
“Very well.”
“Now, won’t you be glad? Won’t it be better in every way?”
He came so near that she felt his feverish breath.
“I told you before,” she answered, “to do just as you liked.”