She obeyed him, her arms held folded over her head as a shield against expected blows. She was still sullen, uncommunicative, her head down.
He limped swiftly to the door, left the room and went to the front part of the house. He paced the length of the living room several times, his fists clenched, his protuberant lip grown heavier.
He called to Mattie, who was in the kitchen.
"I wish," he directed, "you'd go down to Sterrett's and get a dozen oranges."
"Yes, suh. Right now, Mistuh Bristow?"
"Yes; hurry. I want some orangeade."
He returned to the bedroom and closed the door. Lucy was bent forward on the chair, moaning.
"Stop that!" he said, feeling now that he had himself and her under control. "If you don't stop, you'll have something real to sniffle about before I'm through with you! Now begin. What about Perry last Monday night?"
"Please, suh," she changed her tone, "lemme go. I ain' got nothin' to say. I feels like I might say somethin' dat ain' so. I'se kinder skeered you might make me say somethin' whut I don' mean to say."
Moving deliberately, a fine, little tremor in his fingers, he took off his coat and vest and hung them on the back of a chair. He had just noticed that it was warm and close in the shut-up room. There was a ringing in his ears. He kept repeating to himself that, if he lost his temper, she would never become communicative.