Garth felt shame that he had the impulse to risk his mission for this woman he should have loathed. He wanted to take the burly, glistening throat between his hands. He controlled himself with an effort. But he could not experience for the girl that just loathing.
She had altered subtly. At George's question her form had lost its alertness and had assumed the unyielding lines of a somnambulist; and her voice had the colorless tone of one who speaks out of a dream.
"Maybe when you get it open, George. Time enough to think of that then. I'm not so sure you'll open it. I'm not so sure of your nerve."
"Wait and see," he said. "You're a pretty one to talk about nerve. You look as though you'd seen a ghost."
She sank back in a heap. She screened her face with her hands. George stared.
"Now what—"
"Don't say that, George," she whispered. "Not here. Ever since I've been in this room—it—it doesn't feel right."
She trembled.
"Hurry! I'm afraid here."
"Hold the light up," he said roughly. "What's the matter with you? This isn't a graveyard."