The sound of his voice moved her passionately. For how long she had ached and yearned for it! He spoke more huskily, with a thicker tone than he had done, but it was the same voice, rough a little and slow.
"Don't you know me, Martin?" she said, laughing for sheer happiness. She saw before she spoke that he had recognised her. He said nothing, staring at her across the table; and she, held by some safe instinct, did not move from where she was.
At last he said:
"Well ... What do you want?"
"Oh, Martin, don't you recognise me? I'm Maggie."
He nodded. "Yes, I know. You mustn't come here, though. We've nothing to say to one another nowadays—no, nothing." He didn't look at her; his eyes were turned towards the grimy window.
She had an astonishing sense of her possession of him. She laughed and came close to the table.
"I'm not going away, Martin ... not until we've had a talk. Nothing can make me. So there!"
He was looking at her again.
"Why, you've cut your hair!" he said.