“How long do you want to be left by yourself in the house?”
She held up three of her fingers.
“Does that mean three hours?”
She nodded her head.
“Will it be done in that time?”
She made the affirmative sign once more.
Thus far, she had never lifted her eyes to his. In her manner of listening to him when he spoke, in the slightest movement that she made when necessity required it, the same lifeless submission to him, the same mute horror of him, was expressed. He had, thus far, silently resented this, on his side. On the point of leaving the room the restraint which he had laid on himself gave way. For the first time, he resented it in words.
“Why the devil can’t you look at me?” he asked
She let the question pass, without a sign to show that she had heard him. He angrily repeated it. She wrote on her slate, and held it out to him—still without raising her eyes to his face.
“You know you can speak,” he said. “You know I have found you out. What’s the use of playing the fool with me?”