I did not intend to
convey any reproach to her, but perhaps she thought so, for she
seemed to answer that which she took to be in my mind.
"But, Victor, you know," she said, laying down the pencil she had
just taken up, "it is in your own hands. I am willing to marry you
when you like!"
She said it very gently, but with just a touch of cold restraint
that irritated me excessively.
"Oh yes, I know it's all my own confounded fault, but that does not
make it any pleasanter. However, let all that pass. I'll look as
cheerful as I can."
There was a long silence. She was absorbed in the drawing, and I in
my own thoughts, as I stared through the upper pane, as directed, at
the grey, drifting, hurrying November clouds. Had I descried a quoit
there about to descend upon me I should have been rather pleased
than not. At last I became conscious of an intolerable crick in my
neck.
"May I move?"
"Oh, one minute! one minute!" she answered, and her voice struck me.
It was faint, breathless, mechanical: the voice of a person whose
whole being is tense with some straining effort. At least fifteen
more minutes of silence passed.
"I say! I really must turn my head now!"
"No, no! not for worlds! Keep still!"
I kept still, but I felt sick with the peculiar cramp in my neck.
Suddenly she dropped the crayon and started up.
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