She went on
talking desperately in her weak voice--strained shrill octaves above
her ordinary tone.
"I've had this--sofa ten years," she said--"ten years, Richard--an'
you never set with me on it before, an'--you'd been comin'--here a
long while before that came betwixt us last spring, Richard. Ain't
you forgiven me yet?"
Barney made no reply.
"Can't you put your arm around me jest once, Richard?" she went on.
"You ain't never, an' you've been comin' here a long while. I've had
this sofa ten years."
Barney put his arm around her, seemingly with no volition of his own.
"It's six months to-day sence you came last," Sylvia said--"it's six
whole months; an' when I see you goin' past to-night, it didn't seem
as if I could bear it--it didn't seem as if I could bear it,
Richard." Sylvia turned her pale profile closer to Barney's breast
and sobbed faintly. "I've watched so long for you," she sighed out;
"all these months I've sat there at the window, strainin' my eyes
into the dark. Oh, you don't know, Richard, you won't never know!"
Barney trembled with Sylvia's sobs. He sat with a serious
shamefacedness, his arm around the poor bony waist, staring over the
faded fair head, which had never lain on any lover's breast except in
dreams. For the moment he could not stir; he had a feeling of horror,
as if he saw his own double.
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