Her voice was scarcely raised above a whisper.
"That is--Sir Wingrave with you?"
"Yes!" Aynesworth answered. "It was he who saw you first!"
She seemed to catch her breath. Her voice was still tremulous.
"He is changed," she said. "I should not have recognized him."
"They were the best ten years of his life," Aynesworth answered.
"Think of how and in what surroundings he has been compelled to live.
No wonder that he has had the humanity hammered out of him."
She shivered a little.
"Is he always like this?" she asked. "I have watched him. He never
smiles. He looks as hard as fate itself."
"I have known him only a few hours," Aynesworth reminded her.
"I dare not come tomorrow," she whispered; "I am afraid of him."
"Do you wish me to tell him so?" he asked.
"I don't know," she answered. "You are very unfeeling, Mr.
Aynesworth."
"I hope not," he answered, and looked away towards the orchestra. He
did not wish to meet her eyes.
"You are!" she murmured. "I have no one to whom I dare speak--of this.
I dare not mention his name to my husband. It was my evidence which
convicted him, and I can see, I know, that he is vindictive. And he
has those letters! Oh! If I could only get them back?"
Her voice trembled with an appeal whispered but passionate. It was
wonderful how musical and yet how softly spoken her words were. They
were like live things, and the few feet of darkened space through
which they had passed seemed charged with magnetic influence.
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