"You!" she whispered, "you?"
"Yes, I—I did it, but I swear I never m-meant to—oh, Cleone—" and he reached down to her with hands outstretched appealingly. But Cleone shrank down and down—away from him, until she was crouching on the floor, yet staring up at him with wide and awful eyes.
"You!" she whispered.
"Don't!" he cried. "Ah, don't look at me like that and oh, my God!
W-won't you l-let me t-touch you, Clo?"
"I—I'd rather you—wouldn't;" and Barnabas saw that she was shivering violently.
"But it was no m-murder," he pleaded, "and I'm g-going away, Clo—ah! won't you let me k-kiss you good-by—just once, Clo?"
"I'd rather—you wouldn't," she whispered.
"Y-your hand, then—only your hand, Clo."
"I'd rather—you didn't!"
Then Ronald Barrymaine groaned and fell on his knees beside her and sought to kiss her little foot, the hem of her dress, a strand of her long, yellow hair; but seeing how she shuddered away from him, a great sob broke from him and he rose to his feet.