Nan said nothing but sat staring in front of her.
Anny looked up quickly.
“You knew that we had quarrelled, Mother?” she said.
Nan nodded.
The girl paused, and when she spoke again her voice had sunk into a murmur.
“He did not see me at first for the kitchen was dark and I in the corner. I watched him, Nan, I watched him come in, sit down before the counting-table, and take down the slate, and I saw him push it away, and then draw it to him again, and I saw him put his hand through his hair, and I heard him breathe loudly and slowly, and as though it somewhat hurt him, and I—oh, Mother—I heard him call me: ‘Anny, Anny, Anny,’ he said as though he was speaking from a long way off; then he laid his head on his arms there on the counting-table and I heard him breathing again, loud and fast.”
Her voice died away and there was no sound in the coolness of the little hut; then she began to cry again.
Suddenly Nan spoke, and her voice sounded sharp after Anny’s impassioned murmuring.
“And you were married to the Spanish captain?” she asked.
Anny sat up, her beautiful green eyes brimming with tears.