"Marcia, if Ewart has a child, as I am convinced he has, it is a daughter,—" with a quick turn of his head he faced me, speaking distinctly but rapidly,—"and that daughter is you."
It was said, the unheard-of. He had used his knife when I was off my guard. I was powerless to shrink from it, to protest against its use. All I could do was to bear.
I heard one of the dogs whine somewhere about the house. I know I counted the vagrant sparks flying up the chimney. I heard the kitchen clock striking. I counted—ten. I remembered that I had forgotten to wind it, and must do so when I made the bread. I moistened my lips; they were suddenly parched. Then I spoke.
"Why have you told me this?" I failed, curiously, to hear my own voice, and repeated the question.
"Marcia, it had to be said—it was my duty."
"Why?"
"Why?" He turned to me with something like anger flashing in his eyes. "Because I don't choose to have you make a wreck of your life, as I told you only the other day—"
"But if I choose—" I did not know what I was saying. I was merely articulating, but could not tell him so.
"If you choose! Good God—don't you see your situation? Marcia, dear girl, come to yourself—you are not yourself."
Without another word he rose quickly, and went out. I heard him go into the kitchen. He came back with a third of a glass of water.