'I know that voice! I know it!' and the intensity of his feeling was manifested in every word he spoke.
'Silence,' I whispered, 'and come with me, quickly!'
I drew him to a spot from which, without being observed, he could see
Springfield's face.
'That is he, that's he,' he whispered hoarsely. 'I know him,—I know him!'
'Who is he?' I asked.
'I—oh!—no,—I don't know.'
From pain, almost amounting to agony, the expression on his face had changed to that of intense loathing, of infinite contempt.
'Let's get away,' he said; 'this air is polluted.'
A few minutes later, we had come to the rest-house where I had been brought after my shaking-up, and I saw that the letters had come.
'Wait a minute,' I said. 'I want to hear the end of your story.'