"After dinner he made me dress up."
"What d'you mean?"
"He had brought things in his luggage—fancy dress."
"What dresses?"
"Oh, boy's things—things he'd bought in Turkey, on his travels. He made me act that I was his page—and bring the coffee, and sit cross-legged on the ground."
"Go on."
"No—what's the use?" She was crying now. "Oh, God have mercy, what's the use?"
"Go on."
"No. Kill me, if you want to, and be done with it. I don't care—I'm tired out. What I've gone through was worse than death. I'm not afraid of dying."
She would tell him no more; she defied him; and yet he did not kill her. She lay weeping, moaning, at intervals, repeating that desolate phrase, "What's the use? Oh, what's the use?"