She is patient to the conclusion of his appeal. Its apparent sincerity stays her; though she cannot tell, or does not think, why. It is a moment of mechanical irresolution.
But, soon as ended, again returns the bitterness that has just swept through her soul—torturing her afresh.
There is no balm in the words spoken by Dick Darke; on the contrary, they but cause increased rankling.
To his appeal she makes answer, as once before she has answered him—with a single word. But now repeated three times, and in a tone not to be mistaken.
On speaking it, she parts from the spot with proud haughty step, and a denying disdainful gesture, which tells him, she is not to be further stayed.
Spited, chagrined, angry, in his craven heart he feels also cowed, subdued, crestfallen. So much, he dares not follow her, but remains under the magnolia; from whose hollow trunk seems to reverberate the echo of her last word, in its treble repetition: “never—never—never!”