“Was she a sweetheart of yours?” he asked, unconsciously sinking his voice to a whisper, “or a relation, or—”
“Kin to me. Kin to me,” said Mat quickly, yet not impatiently; reaching out his hand again to Zack’s arm, but without looking up.
“Was she your mother?”
“No.”
“Sister?”
“Yes.”
For a minute or two Zack was silent after this answer. As soon as he began to speak again, his companion shook his arm—a little impatiently, this time—and stopped him.
“Drop it,” said Mat peremptorily. “Don’t let’s talk no more, my head—”
“Anything wrong with your head?” asked Zack.
Mat rose to his feet again. A change began to appear in his face. The flash that had tinged it from the first, deepened palpably, and spread up to the very rim of his black skull-cap. A confusion and dimness seemed to be stealing over his eyes, a thickness and heaviness to be impeding his articulation when he spoke again.