She glanced at him. “Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image. They left the castle that day for another, packing with them the leftovers of the troupe that followed them from place to place, never asking about the occasional disappearance of one of its unlucky members. It was her figure, her style of dress, her manner of arranging the hair. By and by—as the paroxysm subsided and he became motionless—she stole back to the bungalow to wait. "But your threats won't prevent my leaving the room when I please, and as I please.
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