The door closed behind her, and he was alone, very quiet and
pale, thinking of what he had done, and not rejoicing, for he knew the
depth of its meaning.
He was glad it was over, for if it had been to do again, he could not
have done it. His lips were parched, his throat was dry, his hands were
burning; he felt as though his head were shaking on his shoulders,
palsied by a blow. But such as the deed was, it had been well done, to
the end. The devil, if he cared for his own, would be pleased. He had
even kissed her. He knew what Judas had been, now, and what he had felt.
He did not know how long he stood there. It might have been a quarter of
an hour or more; but though he watched the clock's face, his eyes saw no
movement of the hands upon the dial. It seemed to him that the room was
dark.
Then the door opened again, and he started and looked round, fearing
lest Veronica might have come back--or her ghost, for he felt as though
he had killed her with his hands. But it was Matilde Macomer. She
glanced round the room and saw that Veronica was gone.
"Well?" she asked, coming swiftly forward to where Bosio was standing,
pale as death under her rouge.
He faced her stupidly, with heavy eyes, like a man drunk.
"It is all over" he said slowly.
She started forward, not understanding him.
"Over? Broken off?" she cried, in horror.
"Oh no!" he answered with a choking laugh, bad to hear. "It is done. It
is agreed.
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