"You thought you knew her," I said, hoping to hurt him. "You did not know her at all."
"That may be," he answered. "I certainly did not understand her, but that was attractive to me. And so, Mr., you thought that you understood her?"
But I did not answer him. My head ached frantically, I was wretchedly in want of sleep. I jumped to my feet, standing in front of him:
"Leave me alone! Leave me alone!" I cried. "Let us part. I am nothing to you—you despise me and laugh at me—you have from the first done so. It was because you laughed at me that she began to laugh. If you had not been there she might have continued to love me—she was very inexperienced. And now that she is gone I am of no more importance to you—let me be! For God's sake, let me be!"
"You are free," he said. "You can return to Mittövo in an hour's time when the wagons go."
I did not speak.
"No, you will not go," he went on, "because you think that she is here. She died here—and you believe that she is not dead. I also will not go—for my own reasons."
Then he jumped off his bed, stood upright against me, his clothes touching mine. He put his hand on my shoulder.
"No, Mr., we will remain together. I find you really rather charming. And you are changed, you know. You are not the silly fool you were when you first came to us!"
I moved away from him. I could not bear the touch of his hand on my shoulder. I had, I repeat, no fear of him. He might laugh at me or no as he pleased, but I did not want his kindness.