He set his teeth and then drew several long puffs on
his cigarette.
"I'm going to count to ten, pal, and when I finish you're going to
tell me everything straight. In the meantime don't stay there thinking
up a new lie. I know you too well, and if you try the same thing on
me again--"
"Well?" she snarled, all the tiger coming back in her voice.
"You'll talk, all right. Here goes the count: One--two--three--four--"
As he counted, leaving a long drag of two or three seconds between
numbers, there was not a change in the figure of the girl. She still
lay with her back turned on him, and the only expressive part that
showed was her hand. First it lay limp against her hip, but as the
monotonous count proceeded it gathered to a fist.
"Five--six--seven--"
It seemed that he had been counting for hours, his will against her
will, the man in him against the woman in her, and during the pauses
between the sound of his voice the very air grew charged with waiting.
To the girl the wait for every count was like the wait of the doomed
traitor when he stands facing the firing-squad, watching the glimmer
of light go down the aimed rifles.
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