"Drink this!" he said, in a voice that trembled. But Poppea shook her head.
"How long have you been here? Ever since those shameless fence cats came?"
Another motion of the head, this time in the affirmative.
"Then you've heard every word they said?"
"Yes," Poppea's lips managed to say. At the same time pride came to her rescue; she raised her head and looked him in the face in a way that was both supplication and a challenge.
Hastily putting aside the food that he had brought, Winslow threw back the curtain, and before she could resist, drew her into an anteroom out of the passageway.
"Sit down!" he commanded. Poppea dropped into a chair, but still kept her eyes, now grown dull with despair, upon him; in fact, it seemed impossible for her to remove them.
"Don't look at me so, child! I should like to wring every one of their scrawny necks; only tell me what to do, and I will do it."
"You can do nothing," were the words formed by Poppea's dry lips, but no sound came.
Suddenly stepping toward her and resting one knee on the divan, he began to speak rapidly in a voice whose vibrant tones were moderated with difficulty.